ved wood which was used by his sitters, and their conversation
quickly assumed an intimate and sympathetic character, brought about by
the so abrupt avowal at its opening. Paul confessed that he, too, was in
love, and that he came so often to M. Joyeuse's only in order to speak
of her whom he loved with Bonne Maman, who had known her formerly.

"That is my case, too," said Andre. "Bonne Maman knows all my secrets;
but we have not yet ventured to say anything to the father. My position
is too unsatisfactory. Ah, when I shall have got _Revolt_ produced!"

Then they talked of that famous drama, _Revolt_, upon which he had been
at work for six months, day and night, which had kept him warm all the
winter, a very severe winter, but whose rigours the magic of composition
had tempered in the little studio, which it transformed. It was there,
within that narrow space, that all the heroes of his piece had appeared
to his poet's vision like familiar gnomes dropped from the roof or
riding moon-beams, and with them the gorgeous tapestries, the glittering
chandeliers, the park scenes with their gleaming flights of steps, all
the luxurious circumstance expected in stage effects, as well as
the glorious tumult of his first night, the applause of which was
represented for him by the rain beating on the glass roof and the boards
rattling in the door, while the wind, driving below over the murky
timber-yard with a noise as of far-off voices, borne near and anew
carried off into the distance, resembled the murmurs from the boxes
opened on the corridor to let the news of his success circulate among
the gossip and wonderment of the crowd. It was not only fame and money
that it was destined to procure him, this thrice-blessed play, but
something also more precious still. With what care accordingly did he
not turn over the leaves of the manuscript in five thick books, all
bound in blue, books like those that the Levantine was accustomed to
strew about on the divan where she took her siestas, and that she marked
with her managerial pencil.

Paul, having in his turn approached the table in order to examine the
masterpiece had his glance attracted by a richly framed portrait of a
woman, which, placed so near to the artist's work, seemed to be there to
preside over it. Elise, doubtless? Oh, no, Andre had not yet the right
to bring out from its protecting case the portrait of his little friend.
This was a woman of about forty, gentle of aspect, f