“Good-morning, dear child,” replied Lisbeth, kissing her.  “Is Wenceslas in the studio?” she added in a whisper.

“No; he is in the drawing-room talking to Stidmann and Chanor.”

“Can we be alone?” asked Lisbeth.

“Come into my room.”

In this room, the hangings of pink-flowered chintz with green leaves on a white ground, constantly exposed to the sun, were much faded, as was the carpet.  The muslin curtains had not been washed for many a day.  The smell of tobacco hung about the room; for Wenceslas, now an artist of repute, and born a fine gentleman, left his cigar-ash on the arms of the chairs and the prettiest pieces of furniture, as a man does to whom love allows everything—­a man rich enough to scorn vulgar carefulness.

“Now, then, let us talk over your affairs,” said Lisbeth, seeing her pretty cousin silent in the armchair into which she had dropped.  “But what ails you?  You look rather pale, my dear.”

“Two articles have just come out in which my poor Wenceslas is pulled to pieces; I have read them, but I have hidden them from him, for they would completely depress him.  The marble statue of Marshal Montcornet is pronounced utterly bad.  The bas-reliefs are allowed to pass muster, simply to allow of the most perfidious praise of his talent as a decorative artist, and to give the greater emphasis to the statement that serious art is quite out of his reach!  Stidmann, whom I besought to tell me the truth, broke my heart by confessing that his own opinion agreed with that of every other artist, of the critics, and the public.  He said to me in the garden before breakfast, ’If Wenceslas cannot exhibit a masterpiece next season, he must give up heroic sculpture and be content to execute idyllic subjects, small figures, pieces of jewelry, and high-class goldsmiths’ work!’ This verdict is dreadful to me, for Wenceslas, I know, will never accept it; he feels he has so many fine ideas.”

“Ideas will not pay the tradesman’s bills,” remarked Lisbeth.  “I was always telling him so—­nothing but money.  Money is only to be had for work done—­things that ordinary folks like well enough to buy them.  When an artist has to live and keep a family, he had far better have a design for a candlestick on his counter, or for a fender or a table, than for groups or statues.  Everybody must have such things, while he may wait months for the admirer of the group—­and for his money—–­”

“You are right, my good Lisbeth.  Tell him all that; I have not the courage.—­Besides, as he was saying to Stidmann, if he goes back to ornamental work and small sculpture, he must give up all hope of the Institute and grand works of art, and we should not get the three hundred thousand francs’ worth of work promised at Versailles and by the City of Paris and the Ministers.  That is what we are robbed of by those dreadful articles, written by rivals who want to step into our shoes.”

“And that is not what you dreamed of, poor little puss!” said Lisbeth, kissing Hortense on the brow.  “You expected to find a gentleman, a leader of Art, the chief of all living sculptors.—­But that is poetry, you see, a dream requiring fifty thousand francs a year, and you have only two thousand four hundred—­so long as I live.  After my death three thousand.”