“Yes, a hundred thousand francs,” repeated the dealer. “If I were rich enough, I would buy it of you myself for twenty thousand francs; for by destroying the mould it would become a valuable property. But one of the princes ought to pay thirty or forty thousand francs for such a work to ornament his drawing-room. No man has ever succeeded in making a clock satisfactory alike to the vulgar and to the connoisseur, and this one, sir, solves the difficulty.” “This is for yourself, monsieur,” said Hortense, giving six gold pieces to the dealer. “Never breath a word of this visit to any one living,” said the artist to his friend, at the door. “If you should be asked where we sold the group, mention the Duc d’Herouville, the famous collector in the Rue de Varenne.” The dealer nodded assent. “And your name?” said Hulot to the artist when he came back. “Count Steinbock.” “Have you the papers that prove your identity?” “Yes, Monsieur le Baron. They are in Russian and in German, but not legalized.” “Do you feel equal to undertaking a statue nine feet high?” “Yes, monsieur.” “Well, then, if the persons whom I shall consult are satisfied with your work, I can secure you the commission for the statue of Marshal Montcornet, which is to be erected on his monument at Pere-Lachaise. The Minister of War and the old officers of the Imperial Guard have subscribed a sum large enough to enable us to select our artist.” “Oh, monsieur, it will make my fortune!” exclaimed Steinbock, overpowered by so much happiness at once. “Be easy,” replied the Baron graciously. “If the two ministers to whom I propose to show your group and this sketch in wax are delighted with these two pieces, your prospects of a fortune are good.” Hortense hugged her father’s arm so tightly as to hurt him. “Bring me your papers, and say nothing of your hopes to anybody, not even to our old Cousin Betty.” “Lisbeth?” said Madame Hulot, at last understanding the end of all this, though unable to guess the means. “I could give proof of my skill by making a bust of the Baroness,” added Wenceslas. The artist, struck by Madame Hulot’s beauty, was comparing the mother and daughter. “Indeed, monsieur, life may smile upon you,” said the Baron, quite charmed by Count Steinbock’s refined and elegant manner. “You will find out that in Paris no man is clever for nothing, and that persevering toil always finds its reward here.” Hortense, with a blush, held out to the young man a pretty Algerine purse containing sixty gold pieces. The artist, with something still of a gentleman’s pride, responded with a mounting color easy enough to interpret. “This, perhaps, is the first money your works have brought you?” said Adeline. “Yes, madame--my works of art. It is not the first-fruits of my labor, for I have been a workman.” “Well, we must hope my daughter’s money will bring you good luck,” said she.