uth of coloring,
the multitude of living or painted figures, the profusion of gilt
frames, gave her a sense of intoxication which doubled her alarms. She
would perhaps have fainted if an unknown rapture had not surged up
in her heart to vivify her whole being, in spite of this chaos of
sensations. She nevertheless believed herself to be under the power
of the Devil, of whose awful snares she had been warned of by the
thundering words of preachers. This moment was to her like a moment of
madness. She found herself accompanied to her cousin's carriage by the
young man, radiant with joy and love. Augustine, a prey to an agitation
new to her experience, an intoxication which seemed to abandon her to
nature, listened to the eloquent voice of her heart, and looked again
and again at the young painter, betraying the emotion that came over
her. Never had the bright rose of her cheeks shown in stronger contrast
with the whiteness of her skin. The artist saw her beauty in all its
bloom, her maiden modesty in all its glory. She herself felt a sort of
rapture mingled with terror at thinking that her presence had brought
happiness to him whose name was on every lip, and whose talent lent
immortality to transient scenes. She was loved! It was impossible to
doubt it. When she no longer saw the artist, these simple words still
echoed in her ear, "You see how love has inspired me!" And the throbs of
her heart, as they grew deeper, seemed a pain, her heated blood revealed
so many unknown forces in her being. She affected a severe headache to
avoid replying to her cousin's questions concerning the pictures; but
on their return Madame Roguin could not forbear from speaking to Madame
Guillaume of the fame that had fallen on the house of the Cat and
Racket, and Augustine quaked in every limb as she heard her mother say
that she should go to the Salon to see her house there. The young girl
again declared herself suffering, and obtained leave to go to bed.

"That is what comes of sight-seeing," exclaimed Monsieur Guillaume--"a
headache. And is it so very amusing to see in a picture what you can
see any day in your own street? Don't talk to me of your artists! Like
writers, they are a starveling crew. Why the devil need they choose my
house to flout it in their pictures?"

"It may help to sell a few ells more of cloth," said Joseph Lebas.

This remark did not protect art and thought from being condemned once
again before the judgment-seat of