"And his Christian name—is it a pretty name?"
"Wenceslas."
"What a wonderful imagination you old maids have!" exclaimed the Baroness. "To hear you talk, Lisbeth, one might really believe you."
"You see, mamma, he is a Pole, and so accustomed to the knout that Lisbeth reminds him of the joys of his native land."
They all three laughed, and Hortense sang Wenceslas! idole de mon ame! instead of O Mathilde.
Then for a few minutes there was a truce.
"These children," said Cousin Betty, looking at Hortense as she went up to her, "fancy that no one but themselves can have lovers."
"Listen," Hortense replied, finding herself alone with her cousin, "if you prove to me that Wenceslas is not a pure invention, I will give you my yellow cashmere shawl."
"He is a Count."
"Every Pole is a Count!"