"Be honest, my Wenceslas; Stidmann was there, Claude Vignon, Vernisset.—Who else? In short, it was good fun?"
"I, I was thinking of nothing but our ten thousand francs, and I was saying to myself, 'My Hortense will be freed from anxiety.'"
This catechism bored the Livonian excessively; he seized a gayer moment to say:
"And you, my dearest, what would you have done if your artist had proved guilty?"
"I," said she, with an air of prompt decision, "I should have taken up Stidmann—not that I love him, of course!"
"Hortense!" cried Steinbock, starting to his feet with a sudden and theatrical emphasis. "You would not have had the chance—I would have killed you!"
Hortense threw herself into his arms, clasping him closely enough to stifle him, and covered him with kisses, saying:
"Ah, you do love me! I fear nothing!—But no more Marneffe. Never go plunging into such horrible bogs."
"I swear to you, my dear Hortense, that I will go there no more, excepting to redeem my note of hand."
She pouted at this, but only as a loving woman sulks to get something for it. Wenceslas, tired out with such a morning's work, went off to his studio to make a clay sketch of the Samson and Delilah, for which he had the drawings in his pocket.