At the same time, these half-artists are delightful; men like them and cram them with praise; they even seem superior to the true artists, who are taxed with conceit, unsociableness, contempt of the laws of society. This is why: Great men are the slaves of their work. Their indifference to outer things, their devotion to their work, make simpletons regard them as egotists, and they are expected to wear the same garb as the dandy who fulfils the trivial evolutions called social duties. These men want the lions of the Atlas to be combed and scented like a lady’s poodle. These artists, who are too rarely matched to meet their fellows, fall into habits of solitary exclusiveness; they are inexplicable to the majority, which, as we know, consists mostly of fools--of the envious, the ignorant, and the superficial. Now you may imagine what part a wife should play in the life of these glorious and exceptional beings. She ought to be what, for five years, Lisbeth had been, but with the added offering of love, humble and patient love, always ready and always smiling. Hortense, enlightened by her anxieties as a mother, and driven by dire necessity, had discovered too late the mistakes she had been involuntarily led into by her excessive love. Still, the worthy daughter of her mother, her heart ached at the thought of worrying Wenceslas; she loved her dear poet too much to become his torturer; and she could foresee the hour when beggary awaited her, her child, and her husband. “Come, come, my child,” said Lisbeth, seeing the tears in her cousin’s lovely eyes, “you must not despair. A glassful of tears will not buy a plate of soup. How much do you want?” “Well, five or six thousand francs.” “I have but three thousand at the most,” said Lisbeth. “And what is Wenceslas doing now?” “He has had an offer to work in partnership with Stidmann at a table service for the Duc d’Herouville for six thousand francs. Then Monsieur Chanor will advance four thousand to repay Monsieur de Lora and Bridau--a debt of honor.” “What, you have had the money for the statue and the bas-reliefs for Marshal Montcornet’s monument, and you have not paid them yet?” “For the last three years,” said Hortense, “we have spent twelve thousand francs a year, and I have but a hundred louis a year of my own. The Marshal’s monument, when all the expenses were paid, brought us no more than sixteen thousand francs. Really and truly, if Wenceslas gets no work, I do not know what is to become of us. Oh, if only I could learn to make statues, I would handle the clay!” she cried, holding up her fine arms. The woman, it was plain, fulfilled the promise of the girl; there was a flash in her eye; impetuous blood, strong with iron, flowed in her veins; she felt that she was wasting her energy in carrying her infant. “Ah, my poor little thing! a sensible girl should not marry an artist till his fortune is made--not while it is still to make.”