Never go
plunging into such horrible bogs."
"I swear to you, my dear Hortense, that I will go there no more,
excepting to redeem my note of hand."
She pouted at this, but only as a loving woman sulks to get something
for it. Wenceslas, tired out with such a morning's work, went off to
his studio to make a clay sketch of the _Samson and Delilah_, for
which he had the drawings in his pocket.
Hortense, penitent for her little temper, and fancying that her
husband was annoyed with her, went to the studio just as the sculptor
had finished handling the clay with the impetuosity that spurs an
artist when the mood is on him. On seeing his wife, Wenceslas hastily
threw the wet wrapper over the group, and putting both arms round her,
he said:
"We were not really angry, were we, my pretty puss?"
Hortense had caught sight of the group, had seen the linen thrown over
it, and had said nothing; but as she was leaving, she took off the
rag, looked at the model, and asked:
"What is that?"
"A group for which I had just had an idea."
"And why did you hide it?"
"I did not mean you to see it till it was finished."
"The woman is very pretty," said Hortense.
And a thousand suspicions cropped up in her mind, as, in India, tall,
rank plants spring up in a night-time.
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