“And does this chateau happen to belong to the Baron de Bergenheim—­a large, blond, good-looking fellow, with rather reddish moustache?”

“That’s the picture of its owner, only that the Baron does not wear a moustache now, not since he left the service.  Do you know him, Monsieur?”

“Yes, I know him!  Speaking of service, I once rendered him one which was of some account.  Is he at the castle?”

“Yes, Monsieur, and his lady also.”

“Ah! his wife, too.  She was a Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, of Provence.  Is she pretty?”

“Pretty,” said Mademoiselle Gobillot, pursing up her lips, “that depends upon tastes.  If a person likes a face as white as a ghost, she is.  And, then, she is so thin!  It certainly can not be very difficult to have a slender waist when one is as thin as that.”

“Not everybody can have rosy cheeks and a form like an enchantress,” said the painter, in a low voice, as he looked at his model in a seductive manner.

“There are some people who think that Monsieur’s sister is prettier than Madame,” observed Madame Gobillot.

“O mother! how can you say that?” exclaimed Reine with a disdainful air.  “Mademoiselle Aline!  A child of fifteen!  She certainly is not wanting in color; her hair is such a blond, such a red, rather!  It looks as if it were on fire.”

“Do not say anything against red hair, I beg of you,” said the artist, “it is an eminently artistic shade, which is very popular.”

“With some it may be so, but with Christians!  It seems to me that black hair—­”

“When it is long and glossy like yours, it is wonderful,” said the young man, darting another killing glance.  “Madame Gobillot, would you mind closing that door?  One can not hear one’s self think here.  I am a little critical, so far as music is concerned, and you have two sopranos outside who deafen me with their shrieks.”

“It is Marguerite Mottet and her sister.  Since our cure has taken to teaching them, they bore us to death, coming here and singing their fine songs.  One of these days I shall notify them to leave.”

As she said these words, Madame Gobillot went to close the door in order to please her guest; as soon as her back was turned, the latter leaned forward with the boldness of a Lovelace and imprinted a very loving kiss upon the rosy cheek of Mademoiselle Reine, who never thought of drawing back until the offence was committed.

The sole witness to this incident was the little kitchen drudge, whose blue eyes had been fastened upon the artist’s moustache and beard for some time.  They seemed to plunge him into a deep admiration.  But at this unexpected event his amazement was so complete that he dropped his spoon into the ashes.

“Eh! mein herr, do you wish to go to bed without your supper, as has been promised you?” said the young man, while the beautiful Reine was trying to recover her countenance.  “Now, then, sing us a little song instead of staring at me as if I were a giraffe.  Your little cook has a nice voice, Madame Gobillot.  Now, then, mein herr, give us a little German lied.  I will give you six kreutzers if you sing in tune, and a flogging if you grate upon my ears.”