Mlle d’Orbe, raising her eyes to the boy, was struck with his pale and anxious face, and said to him in a kind voice, as she continued her painting:  ’Forgive my rudeness, my little friend; this picture is to be sent to the Exposition, and I have not a moment to lose, because, both for my brother’s sake and my own, I wish it to do me credit.  But speak, my child; speak without fear, and be assured that I will not refuse you anything that is in the power of a poor artist.’

Henry, regaining a little courage, told her what he desired:  then Jules having related his friend’s visit to their master, Henry added:  ’But I see very well, mademoiselle, that you cannot do this portrait either, and I am sorry to have disturbed you.’

In the meantime little Jules had been kissing his sister, and caressing her soft hair, entreating her not to refuse his little friend’s request.  Mlle d’Orbe was painting Anna Boleyn:  she stopped her work; a struggle seemed to arise in the depth of her heart, while she looked affectionately on the children.  She, however, soon laid aside her pallett, and casting one glance of regret on her picture:  ’I will take your father’s portrait,’ she said to Henry—­’that man of sorrow, and of genius.  Your mother’s wish shall be fulfilled.’

She had scarcely uttered these words when a lady entered the room.  She was young, pretty, and richly dressed.  Having announced her name, she asked Mlle d’Orbe to take her portrait, on the express condition that it should be finished in time to be placed in the Exposition.

‘It is impossible for me to have this honour, madame,’ replied the artist:  ’I have a picture to finish, and I have just promised to do a portrait to which I must give all my spare time.’

’You would have been well paid for my portrait, and my name in the catalogue would have made yours known,’ added the young countess.

Mlle d’Orbe only replied by a bow; and the lady had scarcely withdrawn, when taking her bonnet and shawl, the young artist embraced her brother, took Henry by the hand, and said to him:  ’Bring me to your mother, my child.’

Henry flew rather than walked; Mlle d’Orbe could with difficulty keep up with him.  Both ascended to the fifth storey in the house in the Rue Descartes, where this poor family lived.  When they reached the door, Henry tapped softly at it.  Mme G——­ opened it.

‘Mamma,’ said the boy, trembling with emotion, ’this lady is an artist:  she is come to take papa’s portrait.’  The poor woman, who had not hoped for such an unexpected happiness, wept as she pressed to her lips the hands of Mlle d’Orbe, and could not find words to express her gratitude.

The portrait was commenced at once; and the young artist worked with zeal and devotion, for her admiration of the gifted and unfortunate man was intense.  She resolved to make the piece valuable as a work of art, for posterity might one day demand the portrait of this gifted man, and her duty as a painter was to represent him in his noblest aspect.