pose
of his _Reverie_. He wished to reproduce exactly what he had seen in the
Parc Monceau while walking with Annette: a young girl, dreaming, with an
open book upon her knees. He had hesitated as to whether he should make
her plain or pretty. If she were ugly she would have more character,
would arouse more thought and emotion, would contain more philosophy. If
pretty, she would be more seductive, would diffuse more charm, and would
please better.

The desire to make a study after his little friend decided him. The
_Reveuse_ should be pretty, and therefore might realize her poetic
vision one day or other; whereas if ugly she would remain condemned to a
dream without hope and without end.

As soon as the two ladies entered Olivier said, rubbing his hands:

"Well, Mademoiselle Nane, we are going to work together, it seems!"

The Countess seemed anxious. She sat in an armchair, and watched Olivier
as he placed an iron garden-chair in the right light. He opened his
bookcase to get a book, then asked, hesitating:

"What does your daughter read?"

"Dear me! anything you like! Give her a volume of Victor Hugo."

"'_La Legende des Siecles_?'"

"That will do."

"Little one, sit down here," he continued, "and take this volume of
verse. Look for page--page 336, where you will find a poem entitled 'Les
Pauvres Gens.' Absorb it, as one drinks the best wines, slowly, word by
word, and let it intoxicate you and move you. Then close the book, raise
your eyes, think and dream. Now I will go and prepare my brushes."

He went into a corner to put the colors on his palette, but while
emptying on the thin board the leaden tubes whence issued slender,
twisting snakes of color, he turned from time to time to look at the
young girl absorbed in her reading.

His heart was oppressed, his fingers trembled; he no longer knew what
he was doing, and he mingled the tones as he mixed the little piles of
paste, so strongly did he feel once more before this apparition,
before that resurrection, in that same place, after twelve years, an
irresistible flood of emotion overwhelming his heart.

Now Annette had finished her reading and was looking straight before
her. Approaching her, Olivier saw in her eyes two bright drops which,
breaking forth, ran down her cheeks. He was startled by one of those
shocks that make a man forget himself, and turning toward the Countess
he murmured:

"God! how beautiful she is!"

But he remained stupefied