Stidmann responded to the
Baron's amiability by shafts of Parisian banter and an artist's high
spirits. Steinbock would not allow himself to be eclipsed by his
friend; he too was witty, said amusing things, made his mark, and was
pleased with himself; Madame Marneffe smiled at him several times to
show that she quite understood him.
The good meal and heady wines completed the work; Wenceslas was deep
in what must be called the slough of dissipation. Excited by just a
glass too much, he stretched himself on a settee after dinner, sunk in
physical and mental ecstasy, which Madame Marneffe wrought to the
highest pitch by coming to sit down by him--airy, scented, pretty
enough to damn an angel. She bent over Wenceslas and almost touched
his ear as she whispered to him:
"We cannot talk over business matters this evening, unless you will
remain till the last. Between us--you, Lisbeth, and me--we can settle
everything to suit you."
"Ah, Madame, you are an angel!" replied Wenceslas, also in a murmur.
"I was a pretty fool not to listen to Lisbeth--"
"What did she say?"
"She declared, in the Rue du Doyenne, that you loved me!"
Madame Marneffe looked at him, seemed covered with confusion, and
hastily left her seat. A young and pretty woman never rouses the hope
of immediate success with impunity. This retreat, the impulse of a
virtuous woman who is crushing a passion in the depths of her heart,
was a thousand times more effective than the most reckless avowal.
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