“Ah, no, you are right.  I never could find her again.”

“An Italian of rank? a princess, eh?”

“Something like it.”

“What has become of her?”

“Ah, no doubt what becomes of all princesses.  Fabien, my young friend, you who still see life through fairy-tales, doubtless you imagine her happy in her lot—­wealthy, spoiled, flattered, speaking with disdainful lips at nightfall, on the terrace of her villa among the great pines, of the barbarian from across the Alps who painted her portrait twenty years since; and, in the same sentence, of her—­last new frock from Paris?”

“Yes, I see her so—­still beautiful.”

“You are good at guessing, Fabien.  She is dead, my friend, and that ideal beauty is now a few white bones at the bottom of a grave.”

“Poor girl!”

Sylvestre had used a sarcastic tone which was not usual with him.  He was contemplating his work with such genuine sadness that I was awed.  I divined that in his past, of which I knew but little, Lampron kept a sorrow buried that I had all unwittingly revived.

“My friend,” said I, “let that be; I come to wish you many happy returns.”

“Many happy returns?  Ah, yes, my poor mother wished me that this morning; then I set to work and forgot all about it.  I am glad you came.  She would feel hurt, dear soul, if I forgot to pass a bit of this evening with her.  Let us go and find her.”

“With all my heart, Sylvestre, but I, too, have forgotten something.”

“What?”

“I have brought no flowers.”

“Never mind, she has plenty; strong-scented flowers of the south, a whole basketful, enough to keep a hive of bees or kill a man in his sleep, which you will.  It is a yearly attention from an unhappy creditor.”

“Debtor, you mean.”

“I mean what I say—­a creditor.”

He lifted the lamp.  The shadows shifted and ran along the walls like huge spiders, the crossed swords flashed, the Venus of Milo threw us a lofty glance, Polyhymnia stood forth pensive and sank back into shadow.  At the door I took the draped lay figure in my arms.  “Excuse me,” I said as I moved it—­and we left the studio for Madame Lampron’s little sitting-room.

She was seated near a small round table, knitting socks, her feet on a hot-water bottle.  Her kind old rough and wrinkled face beamed upon us.  She thrust her needles under the black lace cap she always wore, and drew them out again almost immediately.

“It needed your presence, Monsieur Mouillard,” said she, “to drag him from his work.”

“Saint Sylvester’s day, too.  It is fearful!  Love for his art has changed your son’s nature, Madame Lampron.”

She gave him a tender look, as on entering the room he bent over the fire and shook out his half-smoked pipe against the bars, a thing he never failed to do the moment he entered his mother’s room.

“Dear child!” said she.