Hortense, with an artfulness that would have frightened Lisbeth Fischer if she had detected it, took care not to express all her admiration, though she was full of the delight which every soul that is open to a sense of beauty must feel on seeing a faultless piece of work—perfect and unexpected.
"On my word," said she, "it is very pretty."
"Yes, it is pretty," said her cousin; "but I like an orange-colored shawl better.—Well, child, my lover spends his time in doing such work as that. Since he came to Paris he has turned out three or four little trifles in that style, and that is the fruit of four years' study and toil. He has served as apprentice to founders, metal-casters, and goldsmiths.—There he has paid away thousands and hundreds of francs. And my gentleman tells me that in a few months now he will be famous and rich——"
"Then you often see him?"
"Bless me, do you think it is all a fable? I told you truth in jest."
"And he is in love with you?" asked Hortense eagerly.
"He adores me," replied Lisbeth very seriously. "You see, child, he had never seen any women but the washed out, pale things they all are in the north, and a slender, brown, youthful thing like me warmed his heart.—But, mum; you promised, you know!"
"And he will fare like the five others," said the girl ironically, as she looked at the seal.
"Six others, miss. I left one in Lorraine, who, to this day, would fetch the moon down for me."
"This one does better than that," said Hortense; "he has brought down the sun."