think of her?"

"She is very remarkable. Diable, diable, diable!" repeated M. de
Bellegarde, reflectively; "she is very remarkable."

"I am afraid she is a sad little adventuress," said Newman.

"Not a little one--a great one. She has the material." And Valentin
began to walk away slowly, looking vaguely at the pictures on the walls,
with a thoughtful illumination in his eye. Nothing could have appealed
to his imagination more than the possible adventures of a young lady
endowed with the "material" of Mademoiselle Nioche. "She is very
interesting," he went on. "She is a beautiful type."

"A beautiful type? What the deuce do you mean?" asked Newman.

"I mean from the artistic point of view. She is an artist,--outside of
her painting, which obviously is execrable."

"But she is not beautiful. I don't even think her very pretty."

"She is quite pretty enough for her purposes, and it is a face and
figure on which everything tells. If she were prettier she would be less
intelligent, and her intelligence is half of her charm."

"In what way," asked Newman, who was much amused at his companion's
immediate philosophization of Mademoiselle Nioche, "does her
intelligence strike you as so remarkable?"

"She has taken the measure of life, and she has determined to BE
something--to succeed at any cost. Her painting, of course, is a mere
trick to gain time. She is waiting for her chance; she wishes to launch
herself, and to do it well. She knows her Paris. She is one of fifty
thousand, so far as the mere ambition goes; but I am very sure that
in the way of resolution and capacity she is a rarity. And in one
gift--perfect heartlessness--I will warrant she is unsurpassed. She
has not as much heart as will go on the point of a needle. That is an
immense virtue. Yes, she is one of the celebrities of the future."

"Heaven help us!" said Newman, "how far the artistic point of view may
take a man! But in this case I must request that you don't let it take
you too far. You have learned a wonderful deal about Mademoiselle
Noemie in a quarter of an hour. Let that suffice; don't follow up your
researches."

"My dear fellow," cried Bellegarde with warmth, "I hope I have too good
manners to intrude."

"You are not intruding. The girl is nothing to me. In fact, I rather
dislike her. But I like her poor old father, and for his sake I beg you
to abstain from any attempt to verify your theories."

"For the sake of that seedy old gentl