“The Baron cannot have a sou now,” said Valerie, and she smiled at Hulot.

“I don’t see where he can get it.  But he will draw his salary again in September.”

“And he has his policy of insurance; he has renewed it.  Come, it is high time he should get Marneffe promoted.  I will drive it home this evening.”

“My dear cousin,” said Lisbeth to Wenceslas, “go home, I beg.  You are quite ridiculous.  Your eyes are fixed on Valerie in a way that is enough to compromise her, and her husband is insanely jealous.  Do not tread in your father-in-law’s footsteps.  Go home; I am sure Hortense is sitting up for you.”

“Madame Marneffe told me to stay till the last to settle my little business with you and her,” replied Wenceslas.

“No, no,” said Lisbeth; “I will bring you the ten thousand francs, for her husband has his eye on you.  It would be rash to remain.  To-morrow at eleven o’clock bring your note of hand; at that hour that mandarin Marneffe is at his office, Valerie is free.—­Have you really asked her to sit for your group?—­Come up to my rooms first.—­Ah!  I was sure of it,” she added, as she caught the look which Steinbock flashed at Valerie, “I knew you were a profligate in the bud!  Well, Valerie is lovely—­but try not to bring trouble on Hortense.”

Nothing annoys a married man so much as finding his wife perpetually interposing between himself and his wishes, however transient.

Wenceslas got home at about one in the morning; Hortense had expected him ever since half-past nine.  From half-past nine till ten she had listened to the passing carriages, telling herself that never before had her husband come in so late from dining with Florent and Chanor.  She sat sewing by the child’s cot, for she had begun to save a needlewoman’s pay for the day by doing the mending herself.—­From ten till half-past, a suspicion crossed her mind; she sat wondering: 

“Is he really gone to dinner, as he told me, with Chanor and Florent?  He put on his best cravat and his handsomest pin when he dressed.  He took as long over his toilet as a woman when she wants to make the best of herself.—­I am crazy!  He loves me!—­And here he is!”

But instead of stopping, the cab she heard went past.

From eleven till midnight Hortense was a victim to terrible alarms; the quarter where they lived was now deserted.

“If he has set out on foot, some accident may have happened,” thought she.  “A man may be killed by tumbling over a curbstone or failing to see a gap.  Artists are so heedless!  Or if he should have been stopped by robbers!—­It is the first time he has ever left me alone here for six hours and a half!—­But why should I worry myself?  He cares for no one but me.”