As she blushed, he continued, in a joking way, which excused his audacity: 

“Amedee told me that you had become delicious, but now I hardly dare ask him for news of you.  Ever since you have lived at Montmartre—­and I know that he sees you every Sunday—­he has never offered to take me with him to pay my respects.  Upon my word of honor, Mademoiselle Maria, I believe that he is in love with you and as jealous as a Turk.”

She protested against it, confused but still smiling.

Ah! if he had known of the dream that Maria had kept concealed in one corner of her heart ever since their first meeting.  If he had known that her only desire was to be chosen and loved by this handsome Maurice, who had gone through their house and among poor Papa Gerard’s bric-a-brac like a meteor!  Why not, after all?  Did she not possess that great power, beauty?  Her father, her mother, and even her sister, the wise Louise, had often said so to her.  Yes! from the very first she had been charmed by this young man with the golden moustache, and the ways of a young lord; she had hoped to please him, and later, in spite of poverty and death, she had continued to be intoxicated with this folly and to dream of this narcotic against grief, of the return of this Prince Charming.  Poor Maria, so good and so artless, who had been told too many times that she was pretty!  Poor little spoiled child!

When he left you yesterday, little Maria, after half an hour’s pleasing conversation, Maurice said to you jokingly:  “Do not tell Violette, above all, that we have met.  I should lose my best friend.”  You not only said nothing to Amedee, but you told neither your mother nor your sister.  For Louise and Madame Gerard are prudent and wise, and they would tell you to avoid this rash fellow who has accosted you in a public place, and has told you at once that you are beautiful and beloved.  They would scold you; they would tell you that this young man is of a rich and distinguished family; that his mother has great ambitions for him; that you have only your old black dress and beautiful eyes, and to-morrow, when you return to the Louvre, Madame Gerard will establish herself near your easel and discourage the young gallant.

But, little Maria, you conceal it from your mother and Louise!  You have a secret from your family!  To-morrow when you make your toilette before the mirror and twist up your golden hair, your heart will beat with hope and vanity.  In the Louvre your attention will be distracted from your work when you hear a man’s step resound in a neighboring gallery, and when Maurice arrives you will doubtless be troubled, but very much surprised and not displeased, ah! only too much pleased.  Little Maria, little Maria, he talks to you in a low tone now.  His blond moustache is very near your cheek, and you do well to lower your eyes, for I see a gleam of pleasure under your long lashes.  I do not hear what he says, nor your