Celestine and her husband, as a hint to their father, glanced at the old maid, who audaciously asked, in reply to Crevel: 

“Indeed—­whose?”

Crevel put on an air of reserve which was meant to convey that he would make up for her indiscretions.

“That of Hortense,” he replied; “but it is not yet quite settled.  I have just come from the Lebas’, and they were talking of Mademoiselle Popinot as a suitable match for their son, the young councillor, for he would like to get the presidency of a provincial court.—­Now, come to dinner.”

By seven o’clock Lisbeth had returned home in an omnibus, for she was eager to see Wenceslas, whose dupe she had been for three weeks, and to whom she was carrying a basket filled with fruit by the hands of Crevel himself, whose attentions were doubled towards his Cousin Betty.

She flew up to the attic at a pace that took her breath away, and found the artist finishing the ornamentation of a box to be presented to the adored Hortense.  The framework of the lid represented hydrangeas—­in French called Hortensias—­among which little Loves were playing.  The poor lover, to enable him to pay for the materials of the box, of which the panels were of malachite, had designed two candlesticks for Florent and Chanor, and sold them the copyright—­two admirable pieces of work.

“You have been working too hard these last few days, my dear fellow,” said Lisbeth, wiping the perspiration from his brow, and giving him a kiss.  “Such laborious diligence is really dangerous in the month of August.  Seriously, you may injure your health.  Look, here are some peaches and plums from Monsieur Crevel.—­Now, do not worry yourself so much; I have borrowed two thousand francs, and, short of some disaster, we can repay them when you sell your clock.  At the same time, the lender seems to me suspicious, for he has just sent in this document.”

She laid the writ under the model sketch of the statue of General Montcornet.

“For whom are you making this pretty thing?” said she, taking up the model sprays of hydrangea in red wax which Wenceslas had laid down while eating the fruit.

“For a jeweler.”

“For what jeweler?”

“I do not know.  Stidmann asked me to make something out of them, as he is very busy.”

“But these,” she said in a deep voice, “are Hortensias.  How is it that you have never made anything in wax for me?  Is it so difficult to design a pin, a little box—­what not, as a keepsake?” and she shot a fearful glance at the artist, whose eyes were happily lowered.  “And yet you say you love me?”

“Can you doubt it, mademoiselle?”

“That is indeed an ardent mademoiselle!—­Why, you have been my only thought since I found you dying—­just there.  When I saved you, you vowed you were mine, I mean to hold you to that pledge; but I made a vow to myself!  I said to myself, ’Since the boy says he is mine, I mean to make him rich and happy!’ Well, and I can make your fortune.”