speechless and motionless, but in ecstatic contemplation, in
which all a woman's feelings were merged. For are they not all
comprehended in boundless admiration for the man she loves? When
the painter, uneasy at her silence, leaned forward to look at
her, she held out her hand, unable to speak a word, but two tears
fell from her eyes. Hippolyte took her hand and covered it with
kisses; for a minute they looked at each other in silence, both
longing to confess their love, and not daring. The painter kept
her hand in his, and the same glow, the same throb, told them
that their hearts were both beating wildly. The young girl, too
greatly agitated, gently drew away from Hippolyte, and said, with
a look of the utmost simplicity:

"You will make my mother very happy."

"What, only your mother?" he asked.

"Oh, I am too happy."

The painter bent his head and remained silent, frightened at the
vehemence of the feelings which her tones stirred in his heart.
Then, both understanding the perils of the situation, they went
downstairs and hung up the picture in its place. Hippolyte dined
for the first time with the Baroness, who, greatly overcome, and
drowned in tears, must needs embrace him.

In the evening the old emigre, the Baron de Rouville's old
comrade, paid the ladies a visit to announce that he had just
been promoted to the rank of vice-admiral. His voyages by land
over Germany and Russia had been counted as naval campaigns. On