Two years had passed since I left Paris. Accompanied by my faithful Pettermann, I had travelled all over Spain; the memory of Gil Blas made my sojourn there more delightful; I looked for him at the inns, and on the public promenades; and more than once, when a beggar threw his hat at my feet, I looked to see if he were not taking aim at me with a carbine. The scullery maids and the mule drivers reminded me also of Don Quixote and his facetious squire; I would have liked to meet them riding in search of adventures. All honor to the poets who depict their heroes so vividly that one becomes convinced that they have really existed. Gil Blas and Don Quixote are only imaginary characters, and yet we sometimes fancy that we recognize them; we look for them in the country where the author has placed them. They must be very lifelike therefore, those pages of the novelist, since we attribute life to them, and they become engraved in our memories. For my own part, I know that it would be impossible for me to visit the mountains of Scotland without recalling Rob Roy; to visit Mauritius, without talking of Paul and Virginia; and to visit Italy without thinking of Corinne.

I crossed the Pyrenees, but the idea of seeing Switzerland occurred to me, and we left France again. My depression had vanished, I was no longer morose and taciturn as when I left home; Pettermann too had resumed his habit of singing. We had travelled on horseback for some time; then I sold our steeds and we went through a large part of Andalusia on foot; after that, public conveyances or hired post-chaises carried us to other places. It was by diversifying thus our random journeyings, that I triumphed over the trouble that was consuming me; and it was not an easy matter. In truth, there was still a tinge of bitterness in my smile, and I concluded that that was something of which I could never rid myself.

In the different countries I had visited, I had seen many husbands who were in my position and who worried little about it. Some, jealous through self-esteem, were themselves unfaithful and tyrannized over their wives; others, pretending to be philosophical, treated very badly in private the wives whom in society they seemed to leave entirely at liberty. Many of them closed their eyes, and the great majority believed themselves too shrewd to be betrayed. But I had seen very few who really loved their wives, and who deserved by their attentions and their conduct that those ladies should be true to them.

I had had some love-affairs, but I had not lost my heart. I believed it to be no longer susceptible to love; it had been too cruelly lacerated. My heart was like an invalid with whom I was travelling; it was still weak, and it dreaded violent emotions.

Pettermann gave little thought to the other sex, and I was very glad of it for his sake; but he did not forget the promise I had given him, and he got completely drunk once every month. The rest of the time he drank moderately. I had had no reason to complain of him since he had entered my service. His disposition was equable and cheerful; he sang when he saw that I was in good humor, he held his peace when I was pensive. But never a question, never an inquisitive word; he did not once mention Aubonne, where he had seen me scale the wall. I had every reason to think that he believed me a bachelor.

During the first year of my absence, I received letters from Ernest quite frequently, and I wrote to him whenever I sojourned for any length of time in one place. Faithful to the promise he had given me, he had abstained from mentioning her whom I hoped to forget entirely. He wrote me about my daughter and little EugÈne; he said that my Henriette was as fascinating as ever; he had seen her several times. Did that mean that he had been to her mother’s house? That was something that I did not know. Ah! how I longed to see my daughter again, and to embrace her! It was for her that I had determined to return to Paris; I would hold her in my arms just once, and then I would set out on my travels again; I should have laid in a store of happiness which would last for some time. As for my—as for little EugÈne, I could not think of that child without reviving all my suffering. I should have taken such pleasure in loving my son, in dividing my affection between him and his sister! and that happiness I was destined never to enjoy! Poor EugÈne! what a melancholy future for him!

The last letters which I had received from Ernest had seemed to me different from the first ones; the style was no longer the same, and I detected embarrassment and reticence in them. In the last of all, I had noticed this sentence:

“There has been a great change here of late, my friend; you would not recognize the person from whom you fled. I dare not say more for fear of breaking my promise and being scolded. But come back soon, my dear Henri; your children long to see you and your friends to embrace you.”

My children—he persisted in saying my children. But I had only one. As for the change that he mentioned, what did it matter to me? Did he want to arouse my interest in that woman? No, I could not believe that. I did not mention the subject in my reply.

I was anxious, before returning to Paris, to see Auvergne, that mountainous and picturesque province, the Scotland of France, which those Frenchmen who rave over cliffs and glaciers and precipices would visit oftener if it were not so near them. We admire only what is at a distance; our only ambition is to see Scotland and Italy, and we do not give a thought to Auvergne, Bretagne, and Touraine.

I had visited Talende, with its lovely streams, La Roche Blanche, and the Puy-de-DÔme. Sometimes, when I was enchanted by a beautiful spot, I would turn to Pettermann and say:

“What do you think of this?”

But Pettermann was no painter; I never detected any enthusiasm on his face; he would shake his head and reply coldly:

“It is very pretty; but prout! it doesn’t come up to the views in Munich.”

Munich was his home. There was one man at least who honored his own country.

As we passed near Mont-d’Or, I determined to go there to taste the waters, and to see the little town to which so many invalids and sightseers resort, and, generally speaking, those people who do not know what to do with their time.

I took rooms at the best hotel in the place. I found a large number of guests there; many foreigners, especially Englishmen, but many Frenchmen too, notably those chevaliers d’industrie, men with refined manners, who are seen in Paris at routs and large receptions, and who go to Mont-d’Or solely to gamble; for there is much gambling at those watering places; and often a traveller who arrives in a handsome carriage with liveried servants, goes away on foot and unattended, as a result of yielding to the passion for play.

I did not play cards; but there were also dancing and musical parties. Music no longer had any attractions for me, and the sound of a piano made me ill; I did not dance, either; so that I must needs try to pass my time in conversation. Among the visitors with whom I was thrown every day, I could not help noticing a young lady from Paris who seemed to be about twenty-five years old. She was pretty, and was too well aware of the fact, perhaps; but there was in her coquetry a flavor of frankness and amiability which seemed to say: “I am a flirt but I can’t help it; you must overlook my faults and take me as I am, for I shall never change.”

Her name was Caroline Derbin. At first I thought that she was married or a widow, for her manner and her decided tone did not suggest a demoiselle; she was unmarried, however; she was said to be rich and already in control of her property. Rich, pretty and still unmarried,—it was probable that it was her own choice.

She was with her uncle, one Monsieur Roquencourt; he was a little, thin man, about sixty years of age, but alert and jovial. His little eyes gleamed when he was ogling a lady. He was well-bred, gallant, and attentive to the fair sex; a little inclined to loquacity; but we may well leave liberty of speech to those who have nothing else. Moreover, he was most devoted to his niece, whose lightest wish was law to him.

Although Caroline was coquettish and tried to attract, at all events she had neither the peevishness nor the affectation of a petite-maÎtresse. One became acquainted with her very quickly, and was soon on most friendly terms with her. Did that unreserve speak in favor of her virtue and her principles? That was a question that I could not answer. I had determined not to judge by appearances again. Of what account to me were her coquetry and her heedlessness? I did not propose to marry her or to make love to her. Her company pleased and amused me, and that was enough.

Monsieur Roquencourt liked to talk, and I was a good listener; a talent, or patience, which is more rare than one would think. I soon became his favorite companion.

“Monsieur Dalbreuse,” he said to me on the day after my arrival at Mont-d’Or, “just fancy that I had no idea of coming here to take the waters. In the first place, I am not sick; but it occurred to my niece that she would like to see Mont-d’Or, and crac! we had to start. I remember being at PlombiÈres thirty-five years ago, with the famous Lekain. Did you know Lekain?”

“No, monsieur.”

“Of course not, you were too young. I acted in Lekain’s presence the part of Crispin, in Les Folies Amoureuses.”

“Ah! you have acted, have you?”

“Because I enjoyed it,—with amateurs. Oh! I was mad over acting. I had a complete wardrobe. I still have several costumes in Paris; I used to play the upper servants.”

“And your niece?”

“My niece? oh, no! she declares that she could not act well. As I was saying, I played before Lekain; it was a party hastily arranged at a contractor’s country house. We had a pretty little theatre, on my word, and Mademoiselle Contat was there and acted with us. Did you know Mademoiselle Contat?”

“No, monsieur.”

“Ah! you haven’t seen anything, monsieur! Such talent! such soul! and such a face! One day—I forget what play it was in; wait, I believe that it was Tartufe. No, it wasn’t Tartufe.”

Monsieur Roquencourt’s niece joined us at that moment, which fact I in no wise regretted. She took her uncle’s arm and said:

“This is the time for our drive; the weather is superb. Come, uncle, you can talk of plays another time. Are you coming with us, Monsieur Dalbreuse?”

She asked me that as if we had known each other for years. I admit that I liked her manner; I have always been susceptible to anything which resembles sincerity or frankness; moreover, it mattered little to me then whether I was mistaken or not.

I went to drive with Monsieur Roquencourt and his niece. A pretty calÈche was awaiting them at the door. I noticed that the male visitors, as they bowed to Caroline, gazed at me with an envious eye as I took my seat opposite her in the carriage. I could understand that a charming woman of twenty-five, who had her own carriage, was likely to make numerous conquests everywhere. Some were in love with the woman, and others with the carriage. But I, who coveted neither, took my seat with the utmost tranquillity opposite Mademoiselle Derbin, and enjoyed the drive at leisure, because I was not occupied in making eyes at my vis-À-vis.

At times, Mademoiselle Derbin raved over the landscape; then, all of a sudden, she would begin to laugh at the costume of a water-drinker who passed us. While laughing at her remarks, I pretended to be listening attentively to her uncle, who described the effect he had produced playing Mascarille before MolÉ.

The drive seemed short to me. We returned to the hotel, and in the evening we met again in the salon. I amused myself watching Mademoiselle Derbin. In company she was more coquettish and therefore less agreeable than in private. As I was not paying court to her, I discreetly walked away when I saw a number of adorers coming her way. So that, as a result of that eccentricity which is not uncommon in women, Mademoiselle Derbin seemed to seek my company, and often came to my side.

“You do not dance?” she asked me toward the end of the evening.

“No, I no longer care for dancing.”

“And you do not play cards?”

“They play for very high stakes here. I have an income which is sufficient for my needs; I do not care to endanger it with men who would consider it the most natural thing in the world to rob me of it.”

“You are a wise man!”

“Oh, no!”

“And you have no love-affairs here?”

“Do you think then that one must absolutely have love-affairs when one goes to a watering-place?”

“I don’t say that, but I think you are a most original person.”

“Original? no, I assure you that there are many men like me.”

She left me, after glancing at me with a singular expression. Did she desire to number me among her numerous conquests? It was possible; what she had just said to me might give me a poor idea of her virtue. An unmarried woman who considers it strange that a man has no love-affairs! And yet, I preferred to think that that was simply due to her original character.

I had been a fortnight at Mont-d’Or, and I had intended to pass only one week there. But I was enjoying myself; the company was agreeable; however, if Caroline and her uncle had not been there, I should have gone away; I was becoming accustomed to their society. There was nothing to do there but converse, so that we were together almost all day. I was not making love to Caroline, but she was very pretty; her black eyes alternated in expression between gentleness and mischief. Although one be not in love, there is always a charm attached to the presence of a pretty woman; it was probably that charm which detained me.

There was not a ball or a concert in the assembly room every day; when there was none, we remained at the hotel, and those guests who were congenial met in the salon in the evening. Some played cards, but the greater number conversed. There were some titled persons, and they were not the most agreeable; but we left them to bore one another in their corner, and we chatted with the clever artist, who always had a store of amusing anecdotes in reserve, or with the lady’s man, who told us of his latest adventures. In that circle, Monsieur Roquencourt was not among those who talked least. If anyone mentioned a city, he had acted there; if anyone mentioned a famous personage, he had known an actor who had mimicked him to perfection, and he would proceed to give us a specimen.

I enjoyed listening; but I talked very little, and in what I did say, I did not mention myself. Caroline, who, for all her frivolous and coquettish air, observed very closely everything that took place in the salon, said to me one day:

“Monsieur Dalbreuse, everybody here tells us his or her own experiences; you alone have kept silent thus far. Why is it?”

“Presumably, I have none to relate, mademoiselle.”

“Or that you don’t choose to relate them. However, you are your own master. For my part, I tell everything that concerns me, because hitherto I have had nothing to keep secret. I am an orphan; my father, who was an army contractor, left me twenty-five thousand francs a year. I live with Monsieur Roquencourt, my mother’s brother and my guardian; and he lets me do just as I choose, because he knows that I have been accustomed to that from my childhood. That is my whole history, and you know me as well now as if we had been brought up together.”

She thought perhaps that her confidence would provoke mine; but I replied simply:

“How does it happen that, being as rich and lovely as you are, you have never married?”

“Ah! I was certain that you would ask me that question; I am asked it so often! Bless my soul! monsieur, is there such a terrible hurry about being married, and placing myself under the control of a man who perhaps would not let me do as I wished? I am so happy with my uncle and he is so good, especially when he doesn’t talk about his Crispins and his Lafleurs! really, I tremble at the thought of losing my liberty; and then, I tell you frankly, I have never yet met any man who deserved that I should sacrifice so much to him.”

“You are happy, mademoiselle; believe me, you are very wise to remain so; do not risk the repose of your whole life by binding yourself to someone by whom you think that you are loved, and who will betray you in the most dastardly way! No, do not marry.”

Caroline gazed at me in amazement; she was silent for a few moments, then she began to laugh, saying:

“You are the first person who ever talked to me like that; I was right in thinking that you did not resemble the rest of the world.”

On the day following this conversation, after listening, and laughing heartily the while, to the gallant remarks of a number of young men, Mademoiselle Derbin came, as she was accustomed to do, to the window from which I was gazing at the landscape which stretched out before us.

“Always admiring these mountains, are you not, monsieur?”

“Yes, mademoiselle; I consider this region very interesting.”

“Are you a painter, monsieur?”

“No, mademoiselle; I paint a little, however, but simply as an amateur.”

“Ah! you paint? in what line?”

“Miniatures.”

“Do you paint portraits?”

“I have tried it occasionally.”

“Oh! it would be awfully good of you to paint mine. We have a great deal of time to ourselves here. I will give you sittings as often as you choose. I have been painted many times, but I have never thought the likeness good. Will you do it, Monsieur Dalbreuse?”

How can you refuse a lovely woman when she addresses a request to you, with her charming eyes fixed upon yours? Indeed, I had no reason for refusing what she asked.

“I will paint your portrait, mademoiselle, but I do not flatter myself that I shall be more fortunate than those who have done it before.”

“Oh! perhaps you will; at all events, what does it matter? It will amuse us, and occupy the time. When shall we begin?”

“Whenever you choose.”

“Right away then; we will have a sitting in my uncle’s room; but I must have my hair dressed first, I suppose?”

“No, I prefer to paint you as you are, and not in a ball dress; do not make any preparations at all.”

“As you choose.”

“I will go for my box of colors.”

“And I will go to tell my uncle. Oh! it is awfully good of you.”

On going to my room, I found Pettermann humming a tune as he brushed my clothes, which he was always careful to look over to see if there were any buttons missing, or any holes in the pockets; and he always repaired the damage.

“Is monsieur going to paint?”

“Yes, Pettermann; and I fancy that we shall stay here a few days longer. You are not bored here, I hope?”

“No, monsieur, I am never bored anywhere, myself; besides, the wine is good here. By the way, what day of the month is it?”

“The seventeenth.”

“The deuce! only the seventeenth! this month is very long!”

I guessed why he asked me the question, and I said to him:

“As you consider the wine good here, as I am enjoying myself, and as it is fair that you should do the same, act as if it were the end of the month.”

“Oh, no! a bargain is sacred, monsieur. Since I have been with you, I have learned to respect myself; and if I do get drunk once a month still, it is because I should be sick if I should stop drinking entirely. But never mind; if the wine is good here, the women are terribly inquisitive! prout!”

“The women are inquisitive? How do you know that?”

“Because these last few days they have done nothing but hang round me to try to make me talk.”

“Who, pray?”

“At first it was the landlady and the servants in the inn; but when they found that that didn’t work, there was a good-looking young woman who came to me herself, as if by accident.”

“A lady who lives in the hotel?”

“Yes, the one with the little uncle who talks all the time.”

“Mademoiselle Derbin?”

“Just so.”

“What did she ask you?”

“She acted as if she just happened to pass through the yard where I was; she asked me first: ‘Are you in Monsieur Dalbreuse’s service?’

“‘Yes, mademoiselle.’”

“You should have told her, Pettermann, that you were travelling with me, but not as my servant.”

“Why so, monsieur? I consider myself very lucky to belong to you; and as there must always be one who does what the other says, it is right that you should be the one to give the orders; therefore you are the master.”

“What then, Pettermann?”

“Then, that young woman—or rather that lady—continued: ‘Have you been with Monsieur Dalbreuse long?’

“‘About two years.’

“‘He seems like a very agreeable man, Monsieur Dalbreuse?’

“‘He isn’t cross, mademoiselle.’

“‘What does he do in Paris?’

“All those questions began to tire me, and I replied rather short:

“‘He does what he chooses, mademoiselle; it doesn’t make any difference to me.’—At that she went away. But in a minute she came skipping back, and said to me almost in my ear, as she tried to slip a gold-piece into my hand:

“‘He is a bachelor, isn’t he?’—I didn’t take the money, but I touched my hat and said:

“’ Yes, mademoiselle, he is a bachelor.’—At that she began to laugh, and went away, saying:

“‘The servant is almost as unique as the master.’—Upon my word, if she isn’t inquisitive, I don’t know who is.”

So Mademoiselle Derbin was determined to find out who I was, what my rank and position were in society. My silence had piqued her. But to go so far as to ask if I were married—that was decidedly peculiar. Pettermann believed me to be a bachelor; I had never said anything in his presence which would lead him to suppose that I had ceased to be one. What did it matter to that young woman whether I was married or not? Could it be that she had taken a fancy to me? I could not believe it; I had never said a word of love to her. So that it was probably the whim of a coquette who desired to subject everybody to her empire. She had known me only a fortnight. Moreover, it seemed to me that I was no longer likely to inspire love, that no one could ever love me again.

I said all this to myself as I looked over my box of colors. But it did not prevent me from going to Mademoiselle Derbin, for she expected me; and even if I did attract her, that would be no reason for avoiding her. We must leave such noble acts to the patriarchs of Genesis, whom we are by no means tempted to imitate.

They were waiting for me. The uncle was there; he congratulated me on my talent, and thanked me for my good-nature. Caroline was much perplexed as to the position she should take. I begged her to act as if I were not painting her portrait, so that there should be no affectation in the position, and I set to work.

My model was very docile; she looked at me and smiled very affably. The uncle walked about the room, and soon said:

“She will make a very pretty portrait, monsieur. I was painted once in the costume of Scapin. It was an artist of great talent—I have forgotten his name but it will come to me directly. It was at Bordeaux, at Madame la Comtesse de Vernac’s, who entertained the leading artists of Paris—MolÉ, Saint-Phal, Fleury, Dugazon. In fact, it was at her house that I met Dugazon. Oh! the rascal! as amusing in society as he was on the stage. You must have seen Dugazon?”

“Yes, monsieur, I think so; but I was so young that I hardly remember. Mademoiselle, raise your head a little, if you please.”

“To return to my portrait,—the artist considered me so amusing in Les Fourberies de Scapin, my face was so absurd when I came out of the bag—You know Les Fourberies de Scapin?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Oh! how can you keep asking monsieur such questions, uncle? Does he know MoliÈre? You would do much better to see if the picture looks like me yet.”

“Are you crazy, my dear love, to expect that it will look like you after fifteen minutes?—So I was painted as Scapin, and it was an excellent likeness. That wasn’t my favorite part, however; I won my triumph as Pasquin in Le Dissipateur. I made them cry, monsieur, yes, I made them cry, by the way I said: ‘The little that I possess!’ There are a great many ways of saying that. I had heard Dugazon say it, and if you please, monsieur, I gave it an entirely different expression: ‘The little that I possess!’ There are some who declaim it; Dugazon always declaimed it, but I maintain that you should simply put truth and soul into it: ‘The little that I possess!’—And I saw tears in people’s eyes!—‘The little that——’”

“Oh! for heaven’s sake, uncle! are you trying to make us cry too? You distract monsieur’s attention; you will be responsible for my portrait not looking like me.”

“Your uncle may talk, mademoiselle; I assure you that it doesn’t interfere with my work at all.”

Caroline gave a little pout of vexation, which I would have liked to reproduce on the ivory, because it was very becoming to her. I thought that she wanted her uncle to leave us; but Monsieur Roquencourt had no such intention.

After walking about the room several times, he came to watch me work, then looked at his niece and exclaimed:

“Upon my word, Caroline has in her face, especially in her eyes, much resemblance to Mademoiselle Lange. You did not know Mademoiselle Lange, who used to act at the FranÇais, did you?”

“No, monsieur.”

“Ah! Monsieur Dalbreuse, she was perhaps the one actress who had more truth, more charm in her way of speaking than any other; and a charming woman besides! I knew her well; she taught me to put on my rouge. It is a very difficult thing to put on one’s rouge well; I used to daub my face all over with it. She said to me one evening when I had just done Gros-RenÉ—you know, Gros-RenÉ in Le DÉpit Amoureux:

“Oh! we have seen Le DÉpit Amoureux, uncle! That speech isn’t the best thing in MoliÈre, in my opinion.”

“As I was saying, I had been playing Gros-RenÉ, and with great success, on my word! I had made the audience laugh until they cried. Lange led me aside after the performance, and said to me: ‘You acted like a god! you acted divinely; but, my friend, you don’t know how to put on your rouge; you make big daubs everywhere; that isn’t the way; you must put on a lot under the eyes; your eyes are very bright already, but you will see how much brighter that makes them; then, put on less and less toward the ears, and almost none at all on the lower part of the face.’—I followed her advice, and I gained greatly by it.”

“Uncle, weren’t you to play a game of backgammon this morning with that Englishman who challenged you yesterday?”

“It isn’t this morning, my dear girl, but to-night that we are to play.”

“I thought that it was this morning.”

“You are mistaken.—Backgammon is a very fine game; do you play it, Monsieur Dalbreuse?”

“A little, monsieur.”

“It was Dazincourt who taught me; he was a very fine player. I remember that one evening we played for one of his wigs; it was the wig that he wore in—wait a minute—a beautiful wig, and that counts for a great deal on the stage. It was the wig he wore in——”

Caroline rose and exclaimed impatiently:

“That will do for to-day; I do not want to tire monsieur; let’s go to drive; it is a fine day and I long for the fresh air. Uncle, will you be good enough to fetch my bonnet?”

Monsieur Roquencourt went to fetch the bonnet, scratching his ear and muttering:

“Strange! I can’t remember the name of the part.”

When he had left the room, Mademoiselle Derbin said to me:

“To-morrow, if you choose, we will have a sitting earlier, when my uncle is reading the papers; for really he is terrible with his actors and his acting. One forgets what one is doing; it seems to me that you must be able to work better when there is no one beside you, talking; that is to say, monsieur, unless you are afraid to be alone with me.”

She smiled as she said that; but there was a touch of sadness in her smile. “Really,” I thought, “this young woman is able to assume every sort of expression. Sometimes laughing, playful, mocking; sometimes serious, thoughtful, and languishing; she is never the same for two minutes.”—Was it art, I wondered, or was it that the different sensations that she felt were instantly depicted upon her features? It mattered little after all. However, I had not yet answered her question; I felt almost embarrassed. At that moment her uncle returned with her bonnet, crying:

“This much is certain, that I won the wig by a carme, which gave me twelve points. Dazincourt jumped from his chair in vexation, and said: ‘I won’t play with you again.’”

Mademoiselle did not care to listen to any more; she took my arm, and we left the room. She took me to drive, without even asking me if I would like to go with them; she evidently divined that it would give me pleasure. She was successful at divination: I was never bored with her.

The next morning I went to her uncle’s room at the hour she had appointed; I found her alone; I had no feeling of confusion or embarrassment, for I had no declaration to make to her; even if she had attracted me, I should not have told her so. I was not free, and I did not propose to deceive her; but I had nothing to fear. My heart would never know the sensation of love again; I liked Mademoiselle Derbin’s company, I liked her disposition, her wit, her unreserve; I did full justice to her charms; but I was not in love with her.—I could never love again.

We set to work at once. I labored at her portrait with pleasure; but sometimes a cruel memory awoke in my heart; I remembered the delightful sittings which my wife had given me. What a joy it was to me to paint her! Ah! her smile was very sweet too, and her eyes were filled with love for me.

When such ideas assailed me, a very perceptible change took place in my expression, no doubt, for my model said to me for the second time:

“What on earth is the matter with you, Monsieur Dalbreuse? Don’t you feel well?”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“You assumed such a melancholy expression all of a sudden! If it is a bore to you to paint me, monsieur, there is no reason why you should go on.”

“No, mademoiselle, on the contrary it is a great pleasure to me.”

“Oh! you say that in a very peculiar tone.”

I did not reply but went on with my work. Caroline became very serious and did not say another word.

“Would you mind smiling a little, mademoiselle? You do not usually have such a serious expression.”

“It’s because you say nothing to amuse me, and you yourself have sometimes an expression—oh! mon Dieu! what an agreeable man you are!”

“I may have memories which are not very cheerful; and what I am doing at this moment reminds me——”

“Of what?”

“Of a person whose portrait I once painted.”

“A woman?”

“Yes.”

“A woman whom you loved, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes!”

Caroline changed color and rose abruptly, saying:

“That’s enough for to-day; I won’t pose any more.”

“But, mademoiselle, we have just begun.”

“I am very sorry, but I am tired; besides, I don’t care any longer about having my portrait painted!”

“What new whim is this?”

“Well, monsieur, if I choose to have whims——”

“I am very sorry too, but I have begun your portrait, and I want to finish it.”

“I tell you that I don’t want a portrait; you would be obliged to keep it, and I should like to know what good it would do you? A man doesn’t wear a portrait. Oh, yes! in a locket sometimes, I believe.—Well, well! now you are assuming your solemn expression again. Well, here I am, monsieur, here I am, don’t be angry; great heaven! I will pose as long as you wish.”

She resumed her seat. I glanced at her; she had hastily wiped her eyes, and yet I saw tears still glistening in them. What an extraordinary woman! What a combination of coquetry and sensibility! What on earth was going on in her heart? I was sometimes afraid to guess.

We worked for a long time, but I made little progress with my task, for I was absent-minded; the past and the present engrossed me in turn. Caroline herself was thoughtful. Sometimes she talked to me about Paris, and I divined that she was anxious to learn what my business was. I saw no reason why I should not tell her that I was an advocate. She seemed pleased to learn that I practised that profession. Why did she take so much interest in my concerns? I had not addressed a word of love to her.

Our second sitting was more cheerful; we were becoming accustomed to each other. When I sighed, she scolded me and told me to work more carefully. When she was pensive, I begged her to smile, to play the coquette as she did in society. Those sittings passed very quickly. Really I could hardly recognize myself; there were times when I was afraid that I was becoming too thoroughly accustomed to Caroline’s company. Ernest was quite right when he urged me to paint pretty women, in order to obtain distraction from my troubles.