“‘Very nice.  How much?’

   “‘One hundred and twenty francs.’

   “‘Six louis? very dear.’

   “’That’s my price for this kind of work, my lord; I am very
   busy just now, my lord.’

   “’Well, let it be this once.  I don’t often have a picture framed;
   to tell the truth, I don’t care for pictures.’

“Dufilleul admires and looks at himself in the vile portrait which he holds outstretched in his right hand, while his left hand feels in his purse.  Monsieur Plumet looks very stiff, very unhappy, and very nervous.  He evidently wants to get his customer off the premises.

“The rustling of skirts is heard on the staircase.  Plumet turns pale, and glancing at the half-opened door, through which the terrier is pushing its nose, steps forward to close it.  It is too late.

“Some one has noiselessly opened it, and on the threshold stands Mademoiselle Jeanne in walking-dress, looking, with bright eyes and her most charming smile, at Plumet, who steps back in a fright, and Dufilleul, who has not yet seen her.

   “‘Well, sir, and so I’ve caught you!’

   “Dufilleul starts, and involuntarily clutches the portrait to his
   waistcoat.

   “‘Mademoiselle—­No, really, you have come—?’

   “‘To see Madame Plumet.  What wrong is there in that?’

   “‘None whatever—­of course not.’

“’Not the least in the world, eh?  Ha, ha!  What a trifle flurries you.  Come now, collect yourself.  There is nothing to be frightened at.  As I was coming upstairs, your dog put his muzzle out; I guessed he was not alone, so I left my maid with Madame Plumet, and came in at the right-hand door instead of the left.  Do you think it improper?’

   “‘Oh, no, Mademoiselle.’

   “’However, I am inquisitive, and I should like to see what you are
   hiding there.’

   “‘It’s a portrait.’

   “‘Hand it to me.’

   “‘With pleasure; unfortunately it’s only a portrait of myself.’

   “’Why unfortunately?  On the contrary, it flatters you—­the nose is
   not so long as the original; what do you say, Monsieur Plumet?’

   “‘Do you think it good?’

   “‘Very.’

   “‘How do you like the frame?’

   “‘It’s very pretty.’

   “‘Then I make you a present of it, Mademoiselle.’

   “‘Why! wasn’t it intended for me?’

   “’I mean—­well! to tell the truth, it wasn’t; it’s a wedding
   present, a souvenir—­there’s nothing extraordinary in that, is
   there?’

   “‘Nothing whatever.  You can tell me whom it’s for, I suppose?’

   “‘Don’t you think that you are pushing your curiosity too far?’

   “‘Well, really!’

   “‘Yes, I mean it.’

   “’Since you make such a secret of it, I shall ask Monsieur Plumet to
   tell me.  Monsieur Plumet, for whom is this portrait?’