of the evening.

On the morrow the young painter felt the most ardent desire to
see Adelaide once more. If he had followed the call of his
passion, he would have gone to his neighbor's door at six in the
morning, when he went to his studio. However, he still was
reasonable enough to wait till the afternoon. But as soon as he
thought he could present himself to Madame de Rouville, he went
downstairs, rang, blushing like a girl, shyly asked Mademoiselle
Leseigneur, who came to let him in, to let him have the portrait
of the Baron.

"But come in," said Adelaide, who had no doubt heard him come
down from the studio.

The painter followed, bashful and out of countenance, not knowing
what to say, happiness had so dulled his wit. To see Adelaide, to
hear the rustle of her skirt, after longing for a whole morning
to be near her, after starting up a hundred time--"I will go down
now"--and not to have gone; this was to him life so rich that
such sensations, too greatly prolonged, would have worn out his
spirit. The heart has the singular power of giving extraordinary
value to mere nothings. What joy it is to a traveler to treasure
a blade of grass, an unfamiliar leaf, if he has risked his life
to pluck it! It is the same with the trifles of love.

The old lady was not in the drawing-room. When the young girl
found herself there, alone with the painter, she brought a chair
to stand on, to take down the picture; but perceiving that she
could not unhook it without setting her foot on the chest of