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. 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