mingled, thrilling together with the deepest emotion of life.

He did not go out that evening, in order to live over again that
rapturous moment; he retired early, his heart vibrating with happiness.
He had hardly awakened the next morning before he asked himself what he
should do. To a _cocotte_ or an actress he would have sent flowers
or even a jewel; but he was tortured with perplexity before this new
situation.

He wished to express, in delicate and charming terms, the gratitude of
his soul, his ecstasy of mad tenderness, his offer of a devotion that
should be eternal; but in order to intimate all these passionate
and high-souled thoughts he could find only set phrases, commonplace
expressions, vulgar and puerile.

Assuredly, he must write--but what? He scribbled, erased, tore up and
began anew twenty letters, all of which seemed to him insulting, odious,
ridiculous.

He gave up the idea of writing, therefore, and decided to go to see her,
as soon as the hour for the sitting had passed, for he felt very sure
that she would not come.

Shutting himself up in his studio, he stood in mental exaltation before
the portrait, his lips longing to press themselves on the painting,
whereon something of herself was fixed; and again and again he looked
out of the window into the street. Every gown he saw in the distance
made his heart throb quickly. Twenty times he believed that he saw her;
then when the approaching woman had passed he sat down again, as if
overcome by a deception.

Suddenly he saw her, doubted, then took his opera-glass, recognized her,
and, dizzy with violent emotion, sat down once more to await her.

When she entered he threw himself on his knees and tried to take her
hands, but she drew them away abruptly, and, as he remained at her feet,
filled with anguish, his eyes raised to hers, she said haughtily:

"What are you doing, Monsieur? I do not understand that attitude."

"Oh, Madame, I entreat you--"

She interrupted him harshly:

"Rise! You are ridiculous!"

He rose, dazed, and murmured:

"What is the matter? Do not treat me in this way--I love you!"

Then, in a few short, dry phrases, she signified her wishes, and decreed
the situation.

"I do not understand what you wish to say. Never speak to me of your
love, or I shall leave this studio never to return. If you forget for a
single moment this condition of my presence here, you never will see me
again."

He looked at her, crushed by