The cook presently returned to say, unfortunately in loud tones, that her master was not in the studio.  In the midst of her anguish, Hortense heard, and the hysterical fit came on again.

“Go and fetch madame’s mother,” said Louise to the cook.  “Quick—­run!”

“If I knew where to find Steinbock, I would go and fetch him!” exclaimed Stidmann in despair.

“He is with that woman!” cried the unhappy wife.  “He was not dressed to go to his work!”

Stidmann hurried off to Madame Marneffe’s, struck by the truth of this conclusion, due to the second-sight of passion.

At that moment Valerie was posed as Delilah.  Stidmann, too sharp to ask for Madame Marneffe, walked straight in past the lodge, and ran quickly up to the second floor, arguing thus:  “If I ask for Madame Marneffe, she will be out.  If I inquire point-blank for Steinbock, I shall be laughed at to my face.—­Take the bull by the horns!”

Reine appeared in answer to his ring.

“Tell Monsieur le Comte Steinbock to come at once, his wife is dying—­”

Reine, quite a match for Stidmann, looked at him with blank surprise.

“But, sir—­I don’t know—­did you suppose——­”

“I tell you that my friend Monsieur Steinbock is here; his wife is very ill.  It is quite serious enough for you to disturb your mistress.”  And Stidmann turned on his heel.

“He is there, sure enough!” said he to himself.

And in point of fact, after waiting a few minutes in the Rue Vanneau, he saw Wenceslas come out, and beckoned to him to come quickly.  After telling him of the tragedy enacted in the Rue Saint-Dominique, Stidmann scolded Steinbock for not having warned him to keep the secret of yesterday’s dinner.

“I am done for,” said Wenceslas, “but you are forgiven.  I had totally forgotten that you were to call this morning, and I blundered in not telling you that we were to have dined with Florent.—­What can I say?  That Valerie has turned my head; but, my dear fellow, for her glory is well lost, misfortune well won!  She really is!—­Good Heavens!—­But I am in a dreadful fix.  Advise me.  What can I say?  How can I excuse myself?”

“I! advise you!  I don’t know,” replied Stidmann.  “But your wife loves you, I imagine?  Well, then, she will believe anything.  Tell her that you were on your way to me when I was on my way to you; that, at any rate, will set this morning’s business right.  Good-bye.”

Lisbeth, called down by Reine, ran after Wenceslas and caught him up at the corner of the Rue Hillerin-Bertin; she was afraid of his Polish artlessness.  Not wishing to be involved in the matter, she said a few words to Wenceslas, who in his joy hugged her then and there.  She had no doubt pushed out a plank to enable the artist to cross this awkward place in his conjugal affairs.

At the sight of her mother, who had flown to her aid, Hortense burst into floods of tears.  This happily changed the character of the hysterical attack.