And Marneffe went away to the office, where his chief’s precious leniency allowed him to come in at about eleven o’clock.  And, indeed, he did little enough, for his incapacity was notorious, and he detested work.

No sooner were they alone than Lisbeth and Valerie looked at each other for a moment like Augurs, and both together burst into a loud fit of laughter.

“I say, Valerie—­is it the fact?” said Lisbeth, “or merely a farce?”

“It is a physical fact!” replied Valerie.  “Now, I am sick and tired of Hortense; and it occurred to me in the night that I might fire this infant, like a bomb, into the Steinbock household.”

Valerie went back to her room, followed by Lisbeth, to whom she showed the following letter:—­

“WENCESLAS MY DEAR,—­I still believe in your love, though it is nearly three weeks since I saw you.  Is this scorn?  Delilah can scarcely believe that.  Does it not rather result from the tyranny of a woman whom, as you told me, you can no longer love?  Wenceslas, you are too great an artist to submit to such dominion.  Home is the grave of glory.—­Consider now, are you the Wenceslas of the Rue du Doyenne?  You missed fire with my father’s statue; but in you the lover is greater than the artist, and you have had better luck with his daughter.  You are a father, my beloved Wenceslas.

“If you do not come to me in the state I am in, your friends would think very badly of you.  But I love you so madly, that I feel I should never have the strength to curse you.  May I sign myself as ever,

“YOUR VALERIE.”

“What do you say to my scheme for sending this note to the studio at a time when our dear Hortense is there by herself?” asked Valerie.  “Last evening I heard from Stidmann that Wenceslas is to pick him up at eleven this morning to go on business to Chanor’s; so that gawk Hortense will be there alone.”

“But after such a trick as that,” replied Lisbeth, “I cannot continue to be your friend in the eyes of the world; I shall have to break with you, to be supposed never to visit you, or even to speak to you.”

“Evidently,” said Valerie; “but—­”

“Oh! be quite easy,” interrupted Lisbeth; “we shall often meet when I am Madame la Marechale.  They are all set upon it now.  Only the Baron is in ignorance of the plan, but you can talk him over.”

“Well,” said Valerie, “but it is quite likely that the Baron and I may be on distant terms before long.”

“Madame Olivier is the only person who can make Hortense demand to see the letter,” said Lisbeth.  “And you must send her to the Rue Saint-Dominique before she goes on to the studio.”

“Our beauty will be at home, no doubt,” said Valerie, ringing for Reine to call up Madame Olivier.

Ten minutes after the despatch of this fateful letter, Baron Hulot arrived.  Madame Marneffe threw her arms round the old man’s neck with kittenish impetuosity.