of the theft of the purse, he still worshiped her. His love was
that of the Chevalier des Grieux admiring his mistress, and holding her
as pure, even on the cart which carries such lost creatures to prison.
"Why should not my love keep her the purest of women? Why abandon her to
evil and to vice without holding out a rescuing hand to her?"

The idea of this mission pleased him. Love makes a gain of everything.
Nothing tempts a young man more than to play the part of a good
genius to a woman. There is something inexplicably romantic in such an
enterprise which appeals to a highly-strung soul. Is it not the utmost
stretch of devotion under the loftiest and most engaging aspect? Is
there not something grand in the thought that we love enough still to
love on when the love of others dwindles and dies?

Hippolyte sat down in his studio, gazed at his picture without doing
anything to it, seeing the figures through tears that swelled in his
eyes, holding his brush in his hand, going up to the canvas as if to
soften down an effect, but not touching it. Night fell, and he was still
in this attitude. Roused from his moodiness by the darkness, he went
downstairs, met the old admiral on the way, looked darkly at him as he
bowed, and fled.

He had intended going in to see the ladies, but the sight of Adelaide's
protector froze his heart and dispelled his purpose. For the hundredth
time he wondered what interest could bring this old prodigal, with his
eighty thousand francs a year, to this fourth story, where he lost about
forty francs every evening; and he thought he could guess what it was.

The next and following days Hippolyte threw himself into his work, and
to try to conquer his passion by the swift rush of ideas and the ardor
of composition. He half succeeded. Study consoled him, though it could
not smother the memories of so many tender hours spent with Adelaide.

One evening, as he left his studio, he saw the door of the ladies' rooms
half open. Somebody was standing in the recess of the window, and the
position of the door and the staircase made it impossible that the
painter should pass without seeing Adelaide. He bowed coldly, with a
glance of supreme indifference; but judging of the girl's suffering by
his own, he felt an inward shudder as he reflected on the bitterness
which that look and that coldness must produce in a loving heart. To
crown the most delightful feast which ever brought joy to two pure
souls, by ei