So one day when she had begged "_my_ Cousin Betty" to come to take
coffee with her in her room, she opened on the subject of her lover, to
know how she might see him without risk.

"My dear child," said she, for they called each my dear, "why have you
never introduced your lover to me? Do you know that within a short time
he has become famous?"

"He famous?"

"He is the one subject of conversation."

"Pooh!" cried Lisbeth.

"He is going to execute the statue of my father, and I could be of great
use to him and help him to succeed in the work; for Madame Montcornet
cannot lend him, as I can, a miniature by Sain, a beautiful thing
done in 1809, before the Wagram Campaign, and given to my poor
mother--Montcornet when he was young and handsome."

Sain and Augustin between them held the sceptre of miniature painting
under the Empire.

"He is going to make a statue, my dear, did you say?"

"Nine feet high--by the orders of the Minister of War. Why, where have
you dropped from that I should tell you the news? Why, the Government is
going to give Count Steinbock rooms and a studio at Le Gros-Caillou,
the depot for marble; your Pole will be made the Director, I should not
wonder, with two thousand francs a year and a ring on his finger."

"How do you know all this when I have heard nothing about it?" said
Lisbeth at last, shaking off her amazement.

"Now, my dear little Cousin Betty," said Madame Marneffe, in an
insinuating voice, "are you capable of devoted friendship, put to any
test? Shall we henceforth be sisters? Will you swear to me never to have
a secret from me any more than I from you--to act as my spy, as I will
be yours?--Above all, will you pledge yourself never to betray me either
to my husband or to Monsieur Hulot, and never reveal that it was I who
told you----?"

Madame Marneffe broke off in this spurring harangue; Lisbeth frightened
her. The peasant-woman's face was terrible; her piercing black eyes
had the glare of the tiger's; her face was like that we ascribe to a
pythoness; she set her teeth to keep them from chattering, and her whole
frame quivered convulsively. She had pushed her clenched fingers under
her cap to clutch her hair and support her head, which felt too heavy;
she was on fire. The smoke of the flame that scorched her seemed to
emanate from her wrinkles as from the crevasses rent by a volcanic
eruption. It was a startling spectacle.

"Well, why do you stop?" she asked in a hollo