possessed the advantage of being able to
change his dress, and thus to alter his appearance? While yet a child,
masquerading was my greatest delight. The soul wings its flight in
callow infancy. A _bal costume_ is indeed one of the noblest fruits of
culture. The love of coquetry which is innate with all of us displays
itself there undisguised."

The intendant took his leave. While walking away, his mind was filled
with his old thoughts about Irma.

"No," said he to himself, "such a woman would be a constant strain, and
would require one to be brilliant and intellectual all day long. She
would exhaust one," said he, almost aloud.

No one knew what character Irma intended to appear in, although many
supposed that it would be as "Victory," since it was well known that she
had stood for the model of the statue that surmounted the arsenal. They
were busy conjecturing how she could assume that character without
violating the social proprieties.

Irma spent much of her time in the atelier, and worked assiduously. She
was unable to escape a feeling of unrest, far greater than that she had
experienced years ago when looking forward to her first ball. She could
not reconcile herself to the idea of preparing for the _fete_ so long
beforehand, and would like to have had it take place in the very next
hour, so that something else might be taken up at once. The long delay
tried her patience. She almost envied those beings to whom the
preparation for pleasure affords the greatest part of the enjoyment.
Work alone calmed her unrest. She had something to do, and this
prevented the thoughts of the festival from engaging her mind during the
day. It was only in the evening that she would recompense herself for
the day's work, by giving full swing to her fancy.

The statue of Victory was still in the atelier and was almost finished.
High ladders were placed beside it. The artist was still chiseling at
the figure, and would now and then hurry down to observe the general
effect, and then hastily mount the ladder again in order to add a touch
here or there. Irma scarcely ventured to look up at this effigy of
herself in Grecian costume--transformed and yet herself. The idea of
being thus translated into the purest of art's forms filled her with a
tremor, half joy, half fear.

It was on a winter afternoon. Irma was working assiduously at a copy of
a bust of Theseus, for it was growing dark. Near her stood her
preceptor's marble bust of D