And now, over-tired and over-excited as I was, I remembered for the first time that I had eaten nothing since half-past five that morning.  And then I also remembered that I had left Mueller waiting for me under the archway, without a word of explanation.  I promised myself that I would write to him as soon as I got home, and in the meantime turned in at the first Cafe to which I came and called for breakfast.  But when the breakfast was brought, I could not eat it.  The coffee tasted bitter to me.  The meat stuck in my throat.  I wanted rest more than food—­rest of body and mind, and the forgetfulness of sleep!  So I paid my bill, and, leaving the untasted meal, went home like a man in a dream.

Madame Bouisse was not in her little lodge as I passed it—­neither was my key on its accustomed hook.  I concluded that she was cleaning my rooms, and so, going upstairs, found my door open.  Hearing my own name, however, I paused involuntarily upon the threshold.

“And so, as I was saying,” pursued a husky voice, which I knew at once to be the property of Madame Bouisse, “M’sieur Basil’s friend painted it on purpose for him; and I am sure if he was as good a Catholic as the Holy Father himself, and that picture was a true portrait of our Blessed Lady, he could not worship it more devoutly.  I believe he says his prayers to it, mam’selle!  I often find it in the morning stuck up by the foot of his bed; and when he comes home of an evening to study his books and papers, it always stands on a chair just in front of his table, so that he can see it without turning his head, every time he lifts his eyes from the writing!”

In the murmured reply that followed, almost inaudible though it was, my ear distinguished a tone that set my heart beating.

“Well, I can’t tell, of course,” said Madame Bouisse, in answer, evidently, to the remark just made; “but if mam’selle will only take the trouble to look in the glass, and then look at the picture, she will see how like it is.  For my part, I believe it to be that, and nothing else.  Do you suppose I don’t know the symptoms? Dame! I have eyes, as well as my neighbors; and you may take my word for it, mam’selle, that poor young gentleman is just as much in love as ever a man was in this world!”

“No more of this, if you please, Madame Bouisse,” said Hortense, so distinctly that I could no longer be in doubt as to the speaker.

I stayed to hear no more; but retreating softly down the first flight of stairs, came noisily up again, and went straight into my rooms, saying:—­

“Madame Bouisse, are you here?”

“Not only Madame Bouisse, but an intruder who implores forgiveness,” said Hortense, with a frank smile, but a heightened color.

I bowed profoundly.  No need to tell her she was welcome—­my face spoke for me.

“It was Madame Bouisse who lured me in,” continued she, “to look at that painting.”