"
The suspicion that had dawned in Hortense's mind vanished; she was
miles away from the truth. Madame Marneffe! She had never thought of
her. Her fear for her Wenceslas was that he should fall in with street
prostitutes. The names of Bixiou and Leon de Lora, two artists noted
for their wild dissipations, had alarmed her.
Next morning she saw Wenceslas go out at nine o'clock, and was quite
reassured.
"Now he is at work again," said she to herself, as she proceeded to
dress her boy. "I see he is quite in the vein! Well, well, if we
cannot have the glory of Michael Angelo, we may have that of Benvenuto
Cellini!"
Lulled by her own hopes, Hortense believed in a happy future; and she
was chattering to her son of twenty months in the language of
onomatopoeia that amuses babes when, at about eleven o'clock, the
cook, who had not seen Wenceslas go out, showed in Stidmann.
"I beg pardon, madame," said he. "Is Wenceslas gone out already?"
"He is at the studio."
"I came to talk over the work with him."
"I will send for him," said Hortense, offering Stidmann a chair.
Thanking Heaven for this piece of luck, Hortense was glad to detain
Stidmann to ask some questions about the evening before.
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