"You never ask about him now?"
"To be sure, what is he doing?" said Hortense. "He has become famous.
You ought to be very happy," she added in an undertone to Lisbeth.
"Everybody is talking of Monsieur Wenceslas Steinbock."
"A great deal too much," replied she in her clear tones. "Monsieur is
departing.--If it were only a matter of charming him so far as to defy
the attractions of Paris, I know my power; but they say that in order
to secure the services of such an artist, the Emperor Nichols has
pardoned him----"
"Nonsense!" said the Baroness.
"When did you hear that?" asked Hortense, who felt as if her heart had
the cramp.
"Well," said the villainous Lisbeth, "a person to whom he is bound by
the most sacred ties--his wife--wrote yesterday to tell him so. He
wants to be off. Oh, he will be a great fool to give up France to go
to Russia!--"
Hortense looked at her mother, but her head sank on one side; the
Baroness was only just in time to support her daughter, who dropped
fainting, and as white as her lace kerchief.
"Lisbeth! you have killed my child!" cried the Baroness. "You were
born to be our curse!"
"Bless me! what fault of mine is this, Adeline?" replied Lisbeth, as
she rose with a menacing aspect, of which the Baroness, in her alarm,
took no notice.
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