But the two principal persons in this picture were a young country girl and a young man seated opposite her, who seemed busily engaged in making her portrait.  One would easily recognize, from the airs and elegance of the young woman, that she was the daughter of the house, Mademoiselle Reine Gobillot, the one whose passion for fashion-plates had excited Mademoiselle de Corandeuil’s anger.  She sat as straight and rigid upon her stool as a Prussian corporal carrying arms, and maintained an excessively gracious smile upon her lips, while she made her bust more prominent by drawing back her shoulders as far as she could.

The young painter, on the contrary, was seated with artistic abandon, balancing himself upon a two-legged chair with his heels resting against the mantel; he was dressed in a black velvet coat, and a very small Tam O’Shanter cap of the same material covered the right side of his head, allowing a luxuriant crop of brown hair to be seen upon the other side.  This head-dress, accompanied by long moustaches and a pointed beard covering only his chin, gave the stranger’s face the mediaeval look he probably desired.  This travelling artist was sketching in an album placed upon his knees, with a freedom which indicated perfect confidence in his own talents.  A cigar, skilfully held in one corner of his mouth, did not prevent him from warbling between each puff some snatches of Italian airs of which he seemed to possess a complete repertoire.  In spite of this triple occupation he sustained a conversation with the ease of a man who, like Caesar, could have dictated to three secretaries at once if necessary.

          “Dell’ Assiria, ai semidei
          Aspirar—­”

“I have already asked you not to purse up your mouth so, Mademoiselle Reine; it gives you a Watteau air radically bourgeois.”

“What sort of air does it give me?” she asked, anxiously.

“A Watteau, Regence, Pompadour air.  You have a large mouth, and we will leave it natural, if you please.”

“I have a large mouth!” exclaimed Reine, blushing with anger; “how polite you are!”

And she pinched up her lips until she reduced them to nearly the size of Montmorency cherries.

“Stop this vulgar way of judging of art, queen of my heart.  Learn that there is nothing more appetizing than a large mouth.  I do not care for rosebud mouths!”

“If it is the fashion!” murmured the young girl, in a pleased tone, as she spread out horizontally her vermillion lips, which might have extended from ear to ear, not unlike—­if we can credit that slanderer, Bussy-Rabutin-the amorous smile of Mademoiselle de la Valliere.

“Why did you not let me put on my gold necklace?

“That would have given my portrait a smarter look.  Sophie Mitoux had hers painted with a coral comb and earrings.  How shabby this style is!”

“I beg of you, my good Reine, let me follow my own fancy; an artist is a being of inspiration and spontaneity.  Meanwhile, you make your bust too prominent; there is no necessity for you to look as if you had swallowed a whale.  L’art n’est pas fait pour toi, tu n’en as pas besoin.  Upon my word, you have a most astonishing bust; a genuine Rubens.”