fession; and the excellent busy fellow, who stops
just long enough to whisper in your ear "that so-and-so, the famous
critic, does not look very pleased." Felicia listened to it all with the
greatest calm, raised by her success above the littleness of envy, and
quite proud when a glorious veteran, some old comrade of her father,
threw to her a "You've done very well, little one!" which took her back
to the past, to the little corner reserved for her in the old days in
her father's studio, when she was beginning to carve out a little glory
for herself under the protection of the renown of the great Ruys. But,
taken altogether, the congratulations left her rather cold, because
there lacked one which she desired more than any other, and which she
was surprised not to have yet received. Decidedly he was more often in
her thoughts than any other man had ever been. Was it love at last, the
great love which is so rare in an artist's soul, incapable as that is
of giving itself entirely up to the sway of sentiment, or was it perhaps
simply a dream of honest _bourgeoise_ life, well sheltered against
_ennui_, that spiritless _ennui_, the precursor of storms, which she had
so much reason to dread? In any case, she was herself taken in by it,
and had been living for some days past in a state of delicious trouble,
for love is so strong, so beautiful a thing, that its semblances, its
mirages, allure and can move us as deeply as itself.

Has it ever happened to you in the street, when you have been
preoccupied with thoughts of some one dear to you, to be warned of his
approach by meeting persons with a vague resemblance to him, preparatory
images, sketches of the type to appear directly afterward, which stand
out for you from the crowd like successive appeals to your overexcited
attention? Such presentiments are magnetic and nervous impressions at
which one should not be too disposed to smile, since they constitute
a faculty of suffering. Already, in the moving and constantly renewed
stream of visitors, Felicia had several times thought to recognise the
curly head of Paul de Gery, when suddenly she uttered a cry of joy. It
was not he, however, this time again, but some one who resembled him
closely, whose regular and peaceful physiognomy was always now connected
in her mind with that of her friend Paul through the effect of a
likeness more moral than physical, and the gentle authority which both
exercised over her thoughts.

"Aline!"