es, and a young girl living on
the fourth floor, "Stop, stop," cried Souchet lightly. "A little girl I
see every morning at the Church of the Assumption, and with whom I have
a flirtation. But, my dear fellow, we all know her. The mother is a
Baroness. Do you really believe in a Baroness living up four flights
of stairs? Brrr! Why, you are a relic of the golden age! We see the old
mother here, in this avenue, every day; why, her face, her appearance,
tell everything. What, have you not known her for what she is by the way
she holds her bag?"

The two friends walked up and down for some time, and several young men
who knew Souchet or Schinner joined them. The painter's adventure, which
the sculptor regarded as unimportant, was repeated by him.

"So he, too, has seen that young lady!" said Souchet.

And then there were comments, laughter, innocent mockery, full of the
liveliness familiar to artists, but which pained Hippolyte frightfully.
A certain native reticence made him uncomfortable as he saw his heart's
secret so carelessly handled, his passion rent, torn to tatters, a
young and unknown girl, whose life seemed to be so modest, the victim
of condemnation, right or wrong, but pronounced with such reckless
indifference. He pretended to be moved by a spirit of contradiction,
asking each for proofs of his assertions, and their jests began again.

"But, my dear boy, have you seen the Baroness' shawl?" asked Souchet.

"Have you ever followed the girl when she patters off to church in the
morning?" said Joseph Bridau, a young dauber in Gros' studio.

"Oh, the mother has among other virtues a certain gray gown, which I
regard as typical," said Bixiou, the caricaturist.

"Listen, Hippolyte," the sculptor went on. "Come here at about four
o'clock, and just study the walk of both mother and daughter. If after
that you still have doubts! well, no one can ever make anything of you;
you would be capable of marrying your porter's daughter."

Torn by the most conflicting feelings, the painter parted from his
friends. It seemed to him that Adelaide and her mother must be superior
to these accusations, and at the bottom of his heart he was filled with
remorse for having suspected the purity of this beautiful and simple
girl. He went to his studio, passing the door of the rooms where
Adelaide was, and conscious of a pain at his heart which no man can
misapprehend. He loved Mademoiselle de Rouville so passionately that,
in spite