“Mais, oui! I told mam’selle you had her portrait in your sitting-room,” laughed the fat concierge, leaning on her broom.  “I’m sure it’s quite like enough to be hers, bless her sweet face!”

I felt myself turn scarlet.  To hide my confusion I took the picture down, and carried it to the window.

“You will see it better by this light,” I said, pretending to dust it with my handkerchief.  “It is worth a close examination.”

Hortense knelt down, and studied it for some moments in silence.

“It must be a copy,” she said, presently, more to herself than me—­“it must be a copy.”

“It is a copy,” I replied.  “The original is at the Chateau de Sainte Aulaire, near Montlhery.”

“May I ask how you came by it?”

“A friend of mine, who is an artist, copied it.”

“Then it was done especially for you?”

“Just so.”

“And, no doubt, you value it?”

“More than anything I possess!”

Then, fearing I had said too much, I added:—­

“If I had not admired the original very much, I should not have wished for a copy.”

She shifted the position of the picture in such a manner that, standing where I did, I could no longer see her face.

“Then you have seen the original,” she said, in a low tone.

“Undoubtedly—­and you?”

“Yes, I have seen it; but not lately.”

There was a brief pause.

“Madame Bouisse thinks it so like yourself, mademoiselle,” I said, timidly, “that it might almost be your portrait.”

“I can believe it,” she answered.  “It is very like my mother.”

Her voice faltered; and, still kneeling, she dropped her face in her hands, and wept silently.

Madame Bouisse, in the meantime, had gone into my bedchamber, where she was sweeping and singing to herself with the door three parts closed, believing, no doubt, that she was affording me the opportunity to make a formal declaration.

“Alas! mademoiselle,” I said, hesitatingly, “I little thought...”

She rose, dashed the tears aside, and, holding out her hand to me, said, kindly—­

“It is no fault of yours, fellow-student, if I remind you of the portrait, or if the portrait reminds me of one whom it resembles still more nearly.  I am sorry to have troubled your kind heart with my griefs.  It is not often that they rise to the surface.”

I raised her hand reverently to my lips.

“But you are looking worn and ill yourself,” she added.  “Is anything the matter?”

“Not now,” I replied.  “But I have been up all night, and—­and I am very tired.”

“Was this in your professional capacity?”

“Not exactly—­and yet partly so.  I have been more a looker-on than an active agent—­and I have witnessed a frightful death-scene.”

She sighed, and shook her head.

“You are not of the stuff that surgeons are made of, fellow-student,” she said, kindly.  “Instead of prescribing for others, you need some one to prescribe for you.  Why, your hand is quite feverish.  You should go to bed, and keep quiet for the next twelve hours.”