He fully entered into the traditions of the family, this Andre.  For him, Bonne Maman’s age of twenty years, her triumphant grace, were obscured by a surname full of respect and the attributes of a Providence which seemed to cling to her.

A very brief explanation having calmed Andre Maranne’s mind, he offered his apologies to de Gery, begged him to sit down in the arm-chair of carved wood which was used by his sitters, and their conversation quickly assumed an intimate and sympathetic character, brought about by the so abrupt avowal at its opening.  Paul confessed that he, too, was in love, and that he came so often to M. Joyeuse’s only in order to speak of her whom he loved with Bonne Maman, who had known her formerly.

“That is my case, too,” said Andre.  “Bonne Maman knows all my secrets; but we have not yet ventured to say anything to the father.  My position is too unsatisfactory.  Ah, when I shall have got Revolt produced!”

Then they talked of that famous drama, Revolt, upon which he had been at work for six months, day and night, which had kept him warm all the winter, a very severe winter, but whose rigours the magic of composition had tempered in the little studio, which it transformed.  It was there, within that narrow space, that all the heroes of his piece had appeared to his poet’s vision like familiar gnomes dropped from the roof or riding moon-beams, and with them the gorgeous tapestries, the glittering chandeliers, the park scenes with their gleaming flights of steps, all the luxurious circumstance expected in stage effects, as well as the glorious tumult of his first night, the applause of which was represented for him by the rain beating on the glass roof and the boards rattling in the door, while the wind, driving below over the murky timber-yard with a noise as of far-off voices, borne near and anew carried off into the distance, resembled the murmurs from the boxes opened on the corridor to let the news of his success circulate among the gossip and wonderment of the crowd.  It was not only fame and money that it was destined to procure him, this thrice-blessed play, but something also more precious still.  With what care accordingly did he not turn over the leaves of the manuscript in five thick books, all bound in blue, books like those that the Levantine was accustomed to strew about on the divan where she took her siestas, and that she marked with her managerial pencil.

Paul, having in his turn approached the table in order to examine the masterpiece had his glance attracted by a richly framed portrait of a woman, which, placed so near to the artist’s work, seemed to be there to preside over it.  Elise, doubtless?  Oh, no, Andre had not yet the right to bring out from its protecting case the portrait of his little friend.  This was a woman of about forty, gentle of aspect, fair, and extremely elegant.  As he perceived her, de Gery could not suppress an exclamation.