e defects of the
woman who had told him the story of her life as an excuse for her rough
ways, and he remembered only the benefits she had done him.

One day, exasperated with Wenceslas for having gone out walking instead
of sitting at work, she made a great scene.

"You belong to me," said she. "If you were an honest man, you would try
to repay me the money you owe as soon as possible."

The gentleman, in whose veins the blood of the Steinbocks was fired,
turned pale.

"Bless me," she went on, "we soon shall have nothing to live on but the
thirty sous I earn--a poor work-woman!"

The two penniless creatures, worked up by their own war of words, grew
vehement; and for the first time the unhappy artist reproached his
benefactress for having rescued him from death only to make him lead the
life of a galley slave, worse than the bottomless void, where at least,
said he, he would have found rest. And he talked of flight.

"Flight!" cried Lisbeth. "Ah, Monsieur Rivet was right."

And she clearly explained to the Pole that within twenty-four hours he
might be clapped into prison for the rest of his days. It was a crushing
blow. Steinbock sank into deep melancholy and total silence.

In the course of the following night, Lisbeth hearing overhead some
preparations for suicide, went up to her pensioner's room, and gave him
the schedule and a formal release.

"Here, dear child, forgive me," she said with tears in her eyes. "Be
happy; leave me! I am too cruel to you; only tell me that you will
sometimes remember the poor girl who has enabled you to make a
living.--What can I say? You are the cause of my ill-humor. I might die;
where would you be without me? That is the reason of my being impatient
to see you do some salable work. I do not want my money back for myself,
I assure you! I am only frightened at your idleness, which you call
meditation; at your ideas, which take up so many hours when you sit
gazing at the sky; I want you to get into habits of industry."

All this was said with an emphasis, a look, and tears that moved the
high-minded artist; he clasped his benefactress to his heart and kissed
her forehead.

"Keep these pieces," said he with a sort of cheerfulness. "Why should
you send me to Clichy? Am I not a prisoner here out of gratitude?"

This episode of their secret domestic life had occurred six months
previously, and had led to Steinbock's producing three finished works:
the seal in Hortense's posse