The Poor Relations: Cousin Betty & Cousin Pons. Оноре де Бальзак

ears?” asked Crevel, keenly alive to this catalogue of charms.

      “Ears for a model,” she replied.

      “And small hands?”

      “I tell you, in few words, a gem of a woman—and high-minded, and modest, and refined! A beautiful soul, an angel—and with every distinction, for her father was a Marshal of France——”

      “A Marshal of France!” shrieked Crevel, positively bounding with excitement. “Good Heavens! by the Holy Piper! By all the joys in Paradise!—The rascal!—I beg your pardon, Cousin, I am going crazy!—I think I would give a hundred thousand francs——”

      “I dare say you would, and, I tell you, she is a respectable woman—a woman of virtue. The Baron has forked out handsomely.”

      “He has not a sou, I tell you.”

      “There is a husband he has pushed——”

      “Where did he push him?” asked Crevel, with a bitter laugh.

      “He is promoted to be second in his office—this husband who will oblige, no doubt;—and his name is down for the Cross of the Legion of Honor.”

      “The Government ought to be judicious and respect those who have the Cross by not flinging it broadcast,” said Crevel, with the look of an aggrieved politician. “But what is there about the man—that old bulldog of a Baron?” he went on. “It seems to me that I am quite a match for him,” and he struck an attitude as he looked at himself in the glass. “Heloise has told me many a time, at moments when a woman speaks the truth, that I was wonderful.”

      “Oh,” said Lisbeth, “women like big men; they are almost always good-natured; and if I had to decide between you and the Baron, I should choose you. Monsieur Hulot is amusing, handsome, and has a figure; but you, you are substantial, and then—you see—you look an even greater scamp than he does.”

      “It is incredible how all women, even pious women, take to men who have that about them!” exclaimed Crevel, putting his arm round Lisbeth’s waist, he was so jubilant.

      “The difficulty does not lie there,” said Betty. “You must see that a woman who is getting so many advantages will not be unfaithful to her patron for nothing; and it would cost you more than a hundred odd thousand francs, for our little friend can look forward to seeing her husband at the head of his office within two years’ time.—It is poverty that is dragging the poor little angel into that pit.”

      Crevel was striding up and down the drawing-room in a state of frenzy.

      “He must be uncommonly fond of the woman?” he inquired after a pause, while his desires, thus goaded by Lisbeth, rose to a sort of madness.

      “You may judge for yourself,” replied Lisbeth. “I don’t believe he has had that of her,” said she, snapping her thumbnail against one of her enormous white teeth, “and he has given her ten thousand francs’ worth of presents already.”

      “What a good joke it would be!” cried Crevel, “if I got to the winning post first!”

      “Good heavens! It is too bad of me to be telling you all this tittle-tattle,” said Lisbeth, with an air of compunction.

      “No.—I mean to put your relations to the blush. To-morrow I shall invest in your name such a sum in five-per-cents as will give you six hundred francs a year; but then you must tell me everything—his Dulcinea’s name and residence. To you I will make a clean breast of it.—I never have had a real lady for a mistress, and it is the height of my ambition. Mahomet’s houris are nothing in comparison with what I fancy a woman of fashion must be. In short, it is my dream, my mania, and to such a point, that I declare to you the Baroness Hulot to me will never be fifty,” said he, unconsciously plagiarizing one of the greatest wits of the last century. “I assure you, my good Lisbeth, I am prepared to sacrifice a hundred, two hundred—Hush! Here are the young people, I see them crossing the courtyard. I shall never have learned anything through you, I give you my word of honor; for I do not want you to lose the Baron’s confidence, quite the contrary. He must be amazingly fond of this woman—that old boy.”

      “He is crazy about her,” said Lisbeth. “He could not find forty thousand francs to marry his daughter off, but he has got them somehow for his new passion.”

      “And do you think that she loves him?”

      “At his age!” said the old maid.

      “Oh, what an owl I am!” cried Crevel, “when I myself allowed Heloise to keep her artist exactly as Henri IX. allowed Gabrielle her Bellegrade. Alas! old age, old age!—Good-morning, Celestine. How do, my jewel!—And the brat? Ah! here he comes; on my honor, he is beginning to be like me!—Good-day, Hulot—quite well? We shall soon be having another wedding in the family.”

      Celestine and her husband, as a hint to their father, glanced at the old maid, who audaciously asked, in reply to Crevel:

      “Indeed—whose?”

      Crevel put on an air of reserve which was meant to convey that he would make up for her indiscretions.

      “That of Hortense,” he replied; “but it is not yet quite settled. I have just come from the Lebas’, and they were talking of Mademoiselle Popinot as a suitable match for their son, the young councillor, for he would like to get the presidency of a provincial court.—Now, come to dinner.”

      By seven o’clock Lisbeth had returned home in an omnibus, for she was eager to see Wenceslas, whose dupe she had been for three weeks, and to whom she was carrying a basket filled with fruit by the hands of Crevel himself, whose attentions were doubled towards his Cousin Betty.

      She flew up to the attic at a pace that took her breath away, and found the artist finishing the ornamentation of a box to be presented to the adored Hortense. The framework of the lid represented hydrangeas—in French called Hortensias—among which little Loves were playing. The poor lover, to enable him to pay for the materials of the box, of which the panels were of malachite, had designed two candlesticks for Florent and Chanor, and sold them the copyright—two admirable pieces of work.

      “You have been working too hard these last few days, my dear fellow,” said Lisbeth, wiping the perspiration from his brow, and giving him a kiss. “Such laborious diligence is really dangerous in the month of August. Seriously, you may injure your health. Look, here are some peaches and plums from Monsieur Crevel.—Now, do not worry yourself so much; I have borrowed two thousand francs, and, short of some disaster, we can repay them when you sell your clock. At the same time, the lender seems to me suspicious, for he has just sent in this document.”

      She laid the writ under the model sketch of the statue of General Montcornet.

      “For whom are you making this pretty thing?” said she, taking up the model sprays of hydrangea in red wax which Wenceslas had laid down while eating the fruit.

      “For a jeweler.”

      “For what jeweler?”

      “I do not know. Stidmann asked me to make something out of them, as he is very busy.”

      “But these,” she said in a deep voice, “are Hortensias. How is it that you have never made anything in wax for me? Is it so difficult to design a pin, a little box—what not, as a keepsake?” and she shot a fearful glance at the artist, whose eyes were happily lowered. “And yet you say you love me?”

      “Can you doubt it, mademoiselle?”

      “That is indeed an ardent mademoiselle!—Why, you have been my only thought since I found you dying—just there. When I saved you, you vowed you were mine, I mean to hold you to that pledge; but I made a vow to myself! I said to myself, ‘Since the boy says he is mine, I mean to make him rich and happy!’ Well, and I can make your fortune.”

      “How?” said the hapless artist, at the height of joy, and too artless to dream of a snare.

      “Why,