At this moment Valerie herself brought Steinbock a cup of tea.  This was more than a compliment, it was a favor.  There is a complete language in the manner in which a woman does this little civility; but women are fully aware of the fact, and it is a curious thing to study their movements, their manner, their look, tone, and accent when they perform this apparently simple act of politeness.—­From the question, “Do you take tea?”—­“Will you have some tea?”—­“A cup of tea?” coldly asked, and followed by instructions to the nymph of the urn to bring it, to the eloquent poem of the odalisque coming from the tea-table, cup in hand, towards the pasha of her heart, presenting it submissively, offering it in an insinuating voice, with a look full of intoxicating promises, a physiologist could deduce the whole scale of feminine emotion, from aversion or indifference to Phaedra’s declaration to Hippolytus.  Women can make it, at will, contemptuous to the verge of insult, or humble to the expression of Oriental servility.

And Valerie was more than woman; she was the serpent made woman; she crowned her diabolical work by going up to Steinbock, a cup of tea in her hand.

“I will drink as many cups of tea as you will give me,” said the artist, murmuring in her ear as he rose, and touching her fingers with his, “to have them given to me thus!”

“What were you saying about sitting?” said she, without betraying that this declaration, so frantically desired, had gone straight to her heart.

“Old Crevel promises me a thousand crowns for a copy of your group.”

“He! a thousand crowns for a bronze group?”

“Yes—­if you will sit for Delilah,” said Steinbock.

“He will not be there to see, I hope!” replied she.  “The group would be worth more than all his fortune, for Delilah’s costume is rather un-dressy.”

Just as Crevel loved to strike an attitude, every woman has a victorious gesture, a studied movement, which she knows must win admiration.  You may see in a drawing-room how one spends all her time looking down at her tucker or pulling up the shoulder-piece of her gown, how another makes play with the brightness of her eyes by glancing up at the cornice.  Madame Marneffe’s triumph, however, was not face to face like that of other women.  She turned sharply round to return to Lisbeth at the tea-table.  This ballet-dancer’s pirouette, whisking her skirts, by which she had overthrown Hulot, now fascinated Steinbock.

“Your vengeance is secure,” said Valerie to Lisbeth in a whisper.  “Hortense will cry out all her tears, and curse the day when she robbed you of Wenceslas.”

“Till I am Madame la Marechale I shall not think myself successful,” replied the cousin; “but they are all beginning to wish for it.—­This morning I went to Victorin’s—­I forgot to tell you.—­The young Hulots have bought up their father’s notes of hand given to Vauvinet, and to-morrow they will endorse a bill for seventy-two thousand francs at five per cent, payable in three years, and secured by a mortgage on their house.  So the young people are in straits for three years; they can raise no more money on that property.  Victorin is dreadfully distressed; he understands his father.  And Crevel is capable of refusing to see them; he will be so angry at this piece of self-sacrifice.”