I went across.  Sylvestre opened his portfolio.

“Do you recognize it?”

At once I recognized them.  M. Charnot’s back; Jeanne’s profile, exactly like her; a forest nook; the parasol on the ground; the cane stuck into the grass; a bit of genre, perfect in truth and execution.

“When did you do that?”

“Last night.”

“And you want to exhibit it?”

“At the Salon.”

“But, Sylvestre, it is too late to send in to the Salon.  The Ides of March are long past.”

“Yes, for that very reason I have had the devil of a time, intriguing all the morning.  With a large picture I never should have succeeded; but with a bit of a sketch, six inches by nine—­”

“Bribery of officials, then?”

“Followed by substitution, which is strictly forbidden.  I happened to have hung there between two engravings a little sketch of underwoods not unlike this; one comes down, the other is hung instead—­a little bit of jobbery of which I am still ashamed.  I risked it all for you, in the hope that she would come and recognize the subject.”

“Of course she will recognize it, and understand; how on earth could she help it?  My dear Sylvestre, how can I thank you?”

I seized my friend’s hand and begged his forgiveness for my foolish haste of speech.

He, too, was a little touched and overcome by the pleasure his surprise had given me.

“Look here, Plumet,” he said to the frame-maker, who had taken the sketch over to the light, and was studying it with a professional eye.  “This young man has even a greater interest than I in the matter.  He is a suitor for the lady’s hand, and you can be very useful to him.  If you do not frame the picture his happiness is blighted.”

The frame-maker shook his head.

“Let’s see, Antoine,” said a coaxing little voice, and Madame Plumet left the cradle to come to our aid.

I considered our cause as won.  Plumet repeated in vain, as he pulled his beard, that it was impossible; she declared it was not.  He made a move for his workshop; she pulled him back by the sleeve, made him laugh and give his consent.

“Antoine,” she insisted, “we owe our marriage to Monsieur Mouillard; you must at least pay what you owe.”

I was delighted.  Still, a doubt seized me.

“Sylvestre,” I said to Lampron, who already had his hand upon the door-handle, “do you really think she will come?”

“I hope so; but I will not answer for it.  To make certain, some one must send word to her:  ‘Mademoiselle Jeanne, your portrait is at the Salon.’  If you know any one who would not mind taking this message to the Rue de l’Universite—­”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Come on, then, and trust to luck.”

“Rue de l’Universite, did you say?” broke in little Madame Plumet, who certainly took the liveliest interest in my cause.

“Yes; why?”