And his glance, anxious and
imploring, rested upon the Nabob, as if to beseech his forgiveness for
that flood of impertinent paradoxes.

But Jansoulet, far from appearing to be vexed,--he who was so proud to
pose for that lovely artist, so puffed up by the honor conferred upon
him--nodded his head approvingly.

"She is right, Jenkins," he said, "she is right. We are the real
Bohemia. Look at me, for instance, and Hemerlingue, two of the greatest
handlers of money in Paris. When I think where we started from, all the
trades that we tried our hands at! Hemerlingue, an old regimental
sutler; and myself, who carried bags of grain on the wharves at
Marseille for a living. And then the strokes of luck by which our
fortunes were made, as indeed all fortunes are made nowadays. Bless my
soul! Just look under the peristyle at the Bourse from three to five.
But I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, with my mania for gesticulating
when I talk, I've spoiled my pose--let's see, will this do?"

"It's of no use," said Felicia, throwing down her modelling-tool with
the gesture of a spoiled child. "I can do nothing more to-day."

She was a strange girl, this Felicia. A true child of an artist, a
genial and dissipated artist, according to the romantic tradition, such
as Sebastien Ruys was. She had never known her mother, being the fruit
of one of those ephemeral passions which suddenly enter a sculptor's
bachelor life, as swallows enter a house of which the door is always
open, and go out again at once, because they cannot build nests there.

On that occasion the lady, on taking flight, had left with the great
artist, then in the neighborhood of forty, a beautiful child whom he
had acknowledged and reared, and who became the joy and passion of his
life. Felicia had remained with her father until she was thirteen,
importing a childish, refining element into that studio crowded with
idlers, models, and huge greyhounds lying at full length on divans.
There was a corner set aside for her, for her attempts at sculpture, a
complete equipment on a microscopic scale, a tripod and wax; and old
Ruys would say to all who came in:

"Don't go over there. Don't disturb anything. That's the little one's
corner."

The result was that at ten years of age she hardly knew how to read and
handled the modelling-tool with marvellous skill. Ruys would have liked
to keep the child, who never annoyed him in any way, with him
permanently, a tiny member of the