As for Monsieur Dorlange, he seemed to me less troubled than surprised by the meeting.  Then, as if he thought we kept him too long on the topic of our gratitude, he abruptly changed the subject.

“Madame,” he said to me, “since we are, as it seems, more acquainted than we thought, may I dare to gratify my curiosity?”—­

I fancied I saw the claw of a cat preparing to play with its mouse, so I answered, coldly:—­

“Artists, I am told, are often indiscreet in their curiosity.”

I put a well-marked stiffness into my manner which completed the meaning of the words.  I could not see that it baffled him.

“I hope,” he replied, “that my question is not of that kind.  I only desire to ask if you have a sister.”

“No, monsieur,” I replied, “I have no sister—­none, at least, that I know of,” I added, jestingly.

“I thought it not unlikely, however,” continued Monsieur Dorlange, in the most natural manner possible; “for the family in which I have met a lady bearing the strongest resemblance to you is surrounded by a certain mysterious atmosphere which renders all suppositions possible.”

“Is there any indiscretion in asking the name of that family?”

“Not the least; they are people whom you must have known in Paris in 1829-1830.  They lived in great state and gave fine parties.  I myself met them in Italy.”

“But their name?” I said.

“De Lanty,” he replied, without embarrassment or hesitation.

And, in fact, my dear Madame de Camps, a family of that name did live in Paris about that time, and you probably remember, as I do, that many strange stories were told about them.  As Monsieur Dorlange answered my question he turned back towards his veiled statue.

“The sister whom you have not, madame,” he said to me abruptly, “I shall permit myself to give you, and I venture to hope that you will see a certain family likeness in her.”

So saying, he removed the cloth that concealed his work, and there I stood, under the form of a saint, with a halo round my head.  Could I be angry at the liberty thus taken?

My husband and Nais gave a cry of admiration at the wonderful likeness they had before their eyes.  As for Monsieur Dorlange, he at once explained the cause of his scenic effect.

“This statue,” he said, “is a Saint-Ursula, ordered by a convent in the provinces.  Under circumstances which it would take too long to relate, the type of this saint, the person whom I mentioned just now, was firmly fixed in my memory.  I should vainly have attempted to create by my imagination another type for that saint, it could not have been so completely the expression of my thought.  I therefore began to model this figure which you see from memory, then one day, madame, at Saint-Thomas d’Aquin, I saw you, and I had the superstition to believe that you were sent to me by Providence.  After that, I worked from you only, and as I did not feel at liberty to ask you to come to my studio, the best I could do was to study you when we met, and I multiplied my chances of doing so.  I carefully avoided knowing your name and social position, for I feared to bring you down from the ideal and materialize you.”