"Now, good-bye, my children," said Madame Hulot. "The storm is over.
But do not quarrel any more."
When Wenceslas and his wife returned to their room after letting out
the Baroness, Hortense said to her husband:
"Tell me all about last evening."
And she watched his face all through the narrative, interrupting him
by the questions that crowd on a wife's mind in such circumstances.
The story made Hortense reflect; she had a glimpse of the infernal
dissipation which an artist must find in such vicious company.
"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.
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