one, and that to put herself on the defensive was
to avow herself attacked. In consequence, she crossed to that part of
the room where her neighbor's glance could not reach. Then, at the end
of a few minutes, when she returned, she found that he had closed his
window. Bathilde understood that there was discretion in this action,
and she thanked him. Indeed, the chevalier had just made a masterstroke.
On the terms which he was on with his neighbor, it was impossible that
both windows should remain open at once; if the chevalier's window was
open, his neighbor's must be shut; and he knew that when that was
closed, there was not a chance of seeing even the tip of Mirza's nose
behind the curtain; while if, on the contrary, his window was closed,
hers might possibly remain open, and he could watch her passing to and
fro, or working, which was a great amusement for a poor devil condemned
to absolute seclusion; besides, he had made an immense step:--he had
saluted Bathilde, and she had returned it. They were no longer strangers
to each other, but, in order that their acquaintance might advance, he
must be careful not to be too brusk.

To risk speaking to her after the salute would have been risking too
much; it was better to allow Bathilde to believe that it was all the
effect of chance. Bathilde did not believe it, but she appeared to do
so. The result was that she left her window open, and, seeing her
neighbor's closed, sat down by her own with a book in her hand. As to
Mirza, she jumped on to the stool at her mistress's feet, but instead of
resting her head as usual on the knees of the young girl, she placed it
on the sill, of the window, so much was she occupied with the generous
unknown. The chevalier seated himself in the middle of his room, took
his pencils, and thanks to a corner of his curtain skillfully raised, he
sketched the delicious picture before him. Unfortunately the days were
short, and toward three o'clock the little light which the clouds and
rain had permitted to descend to the earth began to decline, and
Bathilde closed her window. Nevertheless, even in this short time the
chevalier had finished the young girl's head, and the likeness was
perfect. There was her waving hair, her fine transparent skin, the
graceful curve of her swan-like neck; in fact, all to which art can
attain with one of those inimitable models which are the despair of
artists.

When night closed in, the Abbe Brigaud arrived. The cheva