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M. de Lourtier-Vaneau was a man still in the prime of life, wearing a slightly grizzled beard and, by his affable manners and genuine distinction, commanding confidence and liking. "M. de Lourtier," said Renine, "I have ventured to call on your excellency because I read in last year's newspapers that you used to know one of the victims of the lady with the hatchet, Honorine Vernisset."
"I have promised our guests that we will sit at table till the evening. There will be Bixiou, your old official chum du Tillet, Lousteau, Vernisset, Leon de Lora, Vernou, all the wittiest men in Paris, who will not know that we are married. We will play them a little trick, we will get just a little tipsy, and Lisbeth must join us.
Covereau one hundred and eighteen days after Honorine Vernisset; and so on. There was therefore no room for doubt; and the police had no choice but to accept a solution which so precisely fitted the circumstances: the figures corresponded with the intervals. There was no mistake in the records of the lady with the hatchet. But then one deduction became inevitable.
The story made Hortense reflect; she had a glimpse of the infernal dissipation which an artist must find in such vicious company. "Be honest, my Wenceslas; Stidmann was there, Claude Vignon, Vernisset. Who else? In short, it was good fun?" "I, I was thinking of nothing but our ten thousand francs, and I was saying to myself, 'My Hortense will be freed from anxiety."
Suspicions were also turned on Victor de Vernisset, a poet of the school of Canalis, whose passion for Madame Schontz was desperate; but the poet accused Stidmann, a young sculptor, of being his fortune rival. This artist, a charming lad, worked for jewellers, for manufacturers in bronze and silver-smiths; he longed to be another Benvenuto Cellini.
"What has happened?" he asked. "If you go up to Mademoiselle Mirah's rooms, Monsieur le Baron, you will find Mademoiselle Heloise Brisetout there and Monsieur Bixiou, Monsieur Leon de Lora, Monsieur Lousteau, Monsieur de Vernisset, Monsieur Stidmann; and ladies smelling of patchouli holding a housewarming." "Then, where where is ?" "Mademoiselle Mirah? I don't know that I ought to tell you."
The story made Hortense reflect; she had a glimpse of the infernal dissipation which an artist must find in such vicious company. "Be honest, my Wenceslas; Stidmann was there, Claude Vignon, Vernisset. Who else? In short, it was good fun?" "I, I was thinking of nothing but our ten thousand francs, and I was saying to myself, 'My Hortense will be freed from anxiety."
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