Madame Marneffe, having heard Steinbock’s history, was frantically eager to see the young Count; perhaps she wished to have some trifle of his work while they still lived under the same roof. This curiosity so seriously annoyed the Baron that Valerie swore to him that she would never even look at Wenceslas. But though she obtained, as the reward of her surrender of this wish, a little tea-service of old Sevres _pate tendre_, she kept her wish at the bottom of her heart, as if written on tablets. 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.