An immense change had taken place in Cousin Betty; and Valerie, who wanted to smarten her, had turned it to the best account.  The strange woman had submitted to stays, and laced tightly, she used bandoline to keep her hair smooth, wore her gowns as the dressmaker sent them home, neat little boots, and gray silk stockings, all of which were included in Valerie’s bills, and paid for by the gentleman in possession.  Thus furbished up, and wearing the yellow cashmere shawl, Lisbeth would have been unrecognizable by any one who had not seen her for three years.

This other diamond—­a black diamond, the rarest of all—­cut by a skilled hand, and set as best became her, was appreciated at her full value by certain ambitious clerks.  Any one seeing her for the first time might have shuddered involuntarily at the look of poetic wildness which the clever Valerie had succeeded in bringing out by the arts of dress in this Bleeding Nun, framing the ascetic olive face in thick bands of hair as black as the fiery eyes, and making the most of the rigid, slim figure.  Lisbeth, like a Virgin by Cranach or Van Eyck, or a Byzantine Madonna stepped out of its frame, had all the stiffness, the precision of those mysterious figures, the more modern cousins of Isis and her sister goddesses sheathed in marble folds by Egyptian sculptors.  It was granite, basalt, porphyry, with life and movement.

Saved from want for the rest of her life, Lisbeth was most amiable; wherever she dined she brought merriment.  And the Baron paid the rent of her little apartment, furnished, as we know, with the leavings of her friend Valerie’s former boudoir and bedroom.

“I began,” she would say, “as a hungry nanny goat, and I am ending as a lionne.”

She still worked for Monsieur Rivet at the more elaborate kinds of gold-trimming, merely, as she said, not to lose her time.  At the same time, she was, as we shall see, very full of business; but it is inherent in the nature of country-folks never to give up bread-winning; in this they are like the Jews.

Every morning, very early, Cousin Betty went off to market with the cook.  It was part of Lisbeth’s scheme that the house-book, which was ruining Baron Hulot, was to enrich her dear Valerie—­as it did indeed.

Is there a housewife who, since 1838, has not suffered from the evil effects of Socialist doctrines diffused among the lower classes by incendiary writers?  In every household the plague of servants is nowadays the worst of financial afflictions.  With very few exceptions, who ought to be rewarded with the Montyon prize, the cook, male or female, is a domestic robber, a thief taking wages, and perfectly barefaced, with the Government for a fence, developing the tendency to dishonesty, which is almost authorized in the cook by the time-honored jest as to the “handle of the basket.”  The women who formerly picked up their forty sous to buy a lottery ticket now take fifty francs to put into the savings bank.  And the smug Puritans who amuse themselves in France with philanthropic experiments fancy that they are making the common people moral!