?"

"How much do you want?"

"Five hundred. I've got one of those bull-dog dealers after me, and if
the fellow once gets his teeth in he won't let go while there's a bit of
me left. What a crew!"

"I'll write you a line for my notary."

"Have you got a notary?"

"Yes."

"That explains to me why you still make cheeks with pink tones like a
perfumer's sign."

Grassou could not help coloring, for Virginie was sitting.

"Take Nature as you find her," said the great painter, going on with his
lecture. "Mademoiselle is red-haired. Well, is that a sin? All things
are magnificent in painting. Put some vermillion on your palette, and
warm up those cheeks; touch in those little brown spots; come, butter it
well in. Do you pretend to have more sense than Nature?"

"Look here," said Fougeres, "take my place while I go and write that
note."

Vervelle rolled to the table and whispered in Grassou's ear:--

"Won't that country lout spoilt it?"

"If he would only paint the portrait of your Virginie it would be worth
a thousand times more than mine," replied Fougeres, vehemently.

Hearing that reply the bourgeois beat a quiet retreat to his wife, who
was stupefied by the invasion of this ferocious animal, and very uneasy
at his co-operation in her daughter's portrait.

"Here, follow these indications," said Bridau, returning the palette,
and taking the note. "I won't thank you. I can go back now to d'Arthez'
chateau, where I am doing a dining-room, and Leon de Lora the tops of
the doors--masterpieces! Come and see us."

And off he went without taking leave, having had enough of looking at
Virginie.

"Who is that man?" asked Madame Vervelle.

"A great artist," answered Grassou.

There was silence for a moment.

"Are you quite sure," said Virginie, "that he has done no harm to my
portrait? He frightened me."

"He has only done it good," replied Grassou.

"Well, if he is a great artist, I prefer a great artist like you," said
Madame Vervelle.

The ways of genius had ruffled up these orderly bourgeois.

The phase of autumn so pleasantly named "Saint Martin's summer" was
just beginning. With the timidity of a neophyte in presence of a man of
genius, Vervelle risked giving Fougeres an invitation to come out to
his country-house on the following Sunday. He knew, he said, how little
attraction a plain bourgeois family could offer to an artist.

"You artists," he continued, "want emotions, great scenes, and witty