“I am afraid she is a sad little adventuress,” said Newman.

“Not a little one—­a great one.  She has the material.”  And Valentin began to walk away slowly, looking vaguely at the pictures on the walls, with a thoughtful illumination in his eye.  Nothing could have appealed to his imagination more than the possible adventures of a young lady endowed with the “material” of Mademoiselle Nioche.  “She is very interesting,” he went on.  “She is a beautiful type.”

“A beautiful type?  What the deuce do you mean?” asked Newman.

“I mean from the artistic point of view.  She is an artist,—­outside of her painting, which obviously is execrable.”

“But she is not beautiful.  I don’t even think her very pretty.”

“She is quite pretty enough for her purposes, and it is a face and figure on which everything tells.  If she were prettier she would be less intelligent, and her intelligence is half of her charm.”

“In what way,” asked Newman, who was much amused at his companion’s immediate philosophization of Mademoiselle Nioche, “does her intelligence strike you as so remarkable?”

“She has taken the measure of life, and she has determined to be something—­to succeed at any cost.  Her painting, of course, is a mere trick to gain time.  She is waiting for her chance; she wishes to launch herself, and to do it well.  She knows her Paris.  She is one of fifty thousand, so far as the mere ambition goes; but I am very sure that in the way of resolution and capacity she is a rarity.  And in one gift—­perfect heartlessness—­I will warrant she is unsurpassed.  She has not as much heart as will go on the point of a needle.  That is an immense virtue.  Yes, she is one of the celebrities of the future.”

“Heaven help us!” said Newman, “how far the artistic point of view may take a man!  But in this case I must request that you don’t let it take you too far.  You have learned a wonderful deal about Mademoiselle Noemie in a quarter of an hour.  Let that suffice; don’t follow up your researches.”

“My dear fellow,” cried Bellegarde with warmth, “I hope I have too good manners to intrude.”

“You are not intruding.  The girl is nothing to me.  In fact, I rather dislike her.  But I like her poor old father, and for his sake I beg you to abstain from any attempt to verify your theories.”

“For the sake of that seedy old gentleman who came to fetch her?” demanded Valentin, stopping short.  And on Newman’s assenting, “Ah no, ah no,” he went on with a smile.  “You are quite wrong, my dear fellow; you needn’t mind him.”

“I verily believe that you are accusing the poor gentleman of being capable of rejoicing in his daughter’s dishonor.”

“Voyons,” said Valentin; “who is he? what is he?”

“He is what he looks like:  as poor as a rat, but very high-toned.”