“In ten minutes I shall be ready,” said Jacqueline, obediently taking off her hat.

“Why can’t you stay as you are?  That jacket suits you.  Let us begin immediately.”

“No, indeed!  What a horrid suggestion!” she cried, running up to the box which was half open.  “You’ll see how much better I can look in a moment or two.”

“I put no faith in your fancies about your toilette.  I certainly don’t promise to accept them.”

Nevertheless, he left her alone with her Bernese governess, saying:  “Call me when you are ready, I shall be in the next room.”

A quarter of an hour, and more, passed, and no signal had been given.  Marien, getting out of patience, knocked on the door.

“Have you nearly done beautifying yourself?” he asked, in a tone of irony.

“Just done,” replied a low voice, which trembled.

He went in, and to the great amusement of Fraulein Schult, who was not too preoccupied to notice everything, he stood confounded—­petrified, as a man might be by some work of magic.  What had become of Jacqueline?  What had she in common with that dazzling vision?  Had she been touched by some fairy’s wand?  Or, to accomplish such a transformation, had nothing been needed but the substitution of a woman’s dress, fitted to her person, for the short skirts and loose waists cut in a boyish fashion, which had made the little girl seem hardly to belong to any sex, an indefinite being, condemned, as it were, to childishness?  How tall, and slender, and graceful she looked in that long gown, the folds of which fell from her waist in flowing lines, a waist as round and flexible as the branch of a willow; what elegance there was in her modest corsage, which displayed for the first time her lovely arms and neck, half afraid of their own exposure.  She still was not robust, but the leanness that she herself had owned to was not brought into prominence by any bone or angle, her dark skin was soft and polished, the color of ancient statues which have been slightly tinted yellow by exposure to the sun.  This girl, a Parisienne, seemed formed on the model of a figurine of Tanagra.  Greek, too, was her small head, crowned only by her usual braid of hair, which she had simply gathered up so as to show the nape of her neck, which was perhaps the most beautiful thing in all her beautiful person.

“Well!—­what do you think of me?” she said to Marien, with a searching glance to see how she impressed him—­a glance strangely like that of a grown woman.

“Well!—­I can’t get over it!—­Why have you bedizened yourself in that fashion?” he asked, with an affectation of ‘brusquerie’, as he tried to recover his power of speech.

“Then you don’t like me?” she murmured, in a low voice.  Tears came into her eyes; her lips trembled.

“I don’t see Jacqueline.”

“No—­I should hope not—­but I am better than Jacqueline, am I not?”

“I am accustomed to Jacqueline.  This new acquaintance disconcerts me.  Give me time to get used to her.  But once again let me ask, what possessed you to disguise yourself?”