her added, with a laugh, "Not a word." Fraulein Schult felt
that she knew what was expected of her. She was naturally compliant, and
above all things she was anxious to get paid for as many hours of her
time as possible--much like the driver of a fiacre, because the more
money she could make the sooner she would be in a position to espouse
her apothecary.

When Jacqueline, escorted by her Swiss duenna, penetrated almost
furtively into Marien's studio, her heart beat as if she had a
consciousness of doing something very wrong. In truth, she had pictured
to herself so many impossible scenes beforehand, had rehearsed the
probable questions and answers in so many strange dialogues, had soothed
her fancy with so many extravagant ideas, that she had at last created,
bit by bit, a situation very different from the reality, and then threw
herself into it, body and soul.

The look of the atelier--the first she had ever been in in her
life--disappointed her. She had expected to behold a gorgeous collection
of bric-a-brac, according to accounts she had heard of the studios of
several celebrated masters. That of Marien was remarkable only for its
vast dimensions and its abundance of light. Studies and sketches hung on
the walls, were piled one over another in corners, were scattered
about everywhere, attesting the incessant industry of the artist, whose
devotion to his calling was so great that his own work never satisfied
him.

Only some interesting casts from antique bronzes, brought out into
strong relief by a background of tapestry, adorned this lofty hall,
which had none of that confusion of decorative objects, in the midst of
which some modern artists seem to pose themselves rather than to labor.

A fresh canvas stood upon an easel, all ready for the sitter.

"If you please, we will lose no time," said Marien, rather roughly,
seeing that Jacqueline was about to explore all the corners of his
apartment, and that at that moment, with the tips of her fingers, she
was drawing aside the covering he had cast over his Death of Savonarola,
the picture he was then at work upon. It was not the least of his
grudges against Jacqueline for insisting on having her portrait painted
that it obliged him to lay aside this really great work, that he might
paint a likeness.

"In ten minutes I shall be ready," said Jacqueline, obediently taking
off her hat.

"Why can't you stay as you are? That jacket suits you. Let us begin
immediately.