She remained a long time on her knees, in the deep silence of the church, broken only by the sound of footsteps.  Then suddenly, as if a clock had struck in her heart, she awoke from her memories, drew out her watch and started to see that it was already four o’clock.  She hastened away to take her daughter to the studio, where Olivier must already be expecting them.

They found the artist in his studio, studying upon the canvas the pose of his Reverie.  He wished to reproduce exactly what he had seen in the Parc Monceau while walking with Annette:  a young girl, dreaming, with an open book upon her knees.  He had hesitated as to whether he should make her plain or pretty.  If she were ugly she would have more character, would arouse more thought and emotion, would contain more philosophy.  If pretty, she would be more seductive, would diffuse more charm, and would please better.

The desire to make a study after his little friend decided him.  The Reveuse should be pretty, and therefore might realize her poetic vision one day or other; whereas if ugly she would remain condemned to a dream without hope and without end.

As soon as the two ladies entered Olivier said, rubbing his hands: 

“Well, Mademoiselle Nane, we are going to work together, it seems!”

The Countess seemed anxious.  She sat in an armchair, and watched Olivier as he placed an iron garden-chair in the right light.  He opened his bookcase to get a book, then asked, hesitating: 

“What does your daughter read?”

“Dear me! anything you like!  Give her a volume of Victor Hugo.”

“‘La Legende des Siecles?’”

“That will do.”

“Little one, sit down here,” he continued, “and take this volume of verse.  Look for page—­page 336, where you will find a poem entitled ’Les Pauvres Gens.’  Absorb it, as one drinks the best wines, slowly, word by word, and let it intoxicate you and move you.  Then close the book, raise your eyes, think and dream.  Now I will go and prepare my brushes.”

He went into a corner to put the colors on his palette, but while emptying on the thin board the leaden tubes whence issued slender, twisting snakes of color, he turned from time to time to look at the young girl absorbed in her reading.

His heart was oppressed, his fingers trembled; he no longer knew what he was doing, and he mingled the tones as he mixed the little piles of paste, so strongly did he feel once more before this apparition, before that resurrection, in that same place, after twelve years, an irresistible flood of emotion overwhelming his heart.

Now Annette had finished her reading and was looking straight before her.  Approaching her, Olivier saw in her eyes two bright drops which, breaking forth, ran down her cheeks.  He was startled by one of those shocks that make a man forget himself, and turning toward the Countess he murmured: