“Because I have a friend in the neighborhood, and perhaps—­”

I risked giving her the number and name under the seal of secrecy; and it was a good thing I did so.

In three minutes she had concocted a plan.  It was like this:  her friend lived near the hotel in the Rue de l’Universite, a porter’s wife of advanced years, and quite safe; by means of her it might be possible to hint to Mademoiselle Jeanne that her portrait, or something like it, was to be seen at the Salon—­discreetly, of course, and as if it were the merest piece of news.

What a plucky, clever little woman it is!  Surely I was inspired when I did her that service.  I never thought I should be repaid.  And here I am repaid both capital and interest.

Yet I hesitated.  She snatched my consent.

“No, no,” said she, “leave me to act.  I promise you, Monsieur Mouillard, that she shall hear of it, and you, Monsieur Lampron, that the picture shall be framed.”

She showed us to the top of the stairs, did little Madame Plumet, pleased at having won over her husband, at having shown herself so cunning, and at being employed in a conspiracy of love.  In the street Lampron shook me by the hand.  “Good-by, my friend,” he said; “happy men don’t need company.  Four days hence, at noon, I shall come to fetch you, and we will pay our first visit to the Salon together.”

Yes, I was a happy man!  I walked fast, without seeing anything, my eyes lost in day dreams, my ears listening to celestial harmonies.  I seemed to wear a halo.  It abashed me somewhat; for there is something insolent in proclaiming on the housetops:  “Look up at me, my heart is full, Jeanne is going to love me!” Decidedly, my brain was affected.

Near the fountain in the Luxembourg, in front of the old palace where the senate sits, two little girls were playing.  One pushed the other, who fell down crying,

“Naughty Jeanne, naughty girl!” I rushed to pick her up, and kissed her before the eyes of her astonished nurse, saying, “No, Mademoiselle, she is the most charming girl in the world!”

And M. Legrand!  I still blush when I think of my conversation with M. Legrand.  He was standing in a dignified attitude at the door of his shop.

        “Italianwarehouse; dressed provisions;
          specialty in colonial produce.”

He and I are upon good terms; I buy oranges, licorice from him, and rum when I want to make punch.  But there are distinctions.  Well, to-day I called him “Dear Monsieur Legrand;” I addressed him, though I had nothing to buy; I asked after his business; I remarked to him, “What a heavenly day, Monsieur Legrand!  We really have got fine weather at last!”

He looked up to the top of the street, and looked down again at me, but refrained from differing, out of respect.

And, as a matter of fact, I noticed afterward that there was a most unpleasant drizzle.