and passions betrayed. Thus it was with the young painter. He
went out at a very early hour to walk under the fresh shade of
the Tuileries, absorbed in his thoughts, forgetting everything in
the world.

There by chance he met one of his most intimate friends, a
school-fellow and studio-mate, with whom he had lived on better
terms than with a brother.

"Why, Hippolyte, what ails you?" asked Francois Souchet, the
young sculptor who had just won the first prize, and was soon to
set out for Italy.

"I am most unhappy," replied Hippolyte gravely.

"Nothing but a love affair can cause you grief. Money, glory,
respect--you lack nothing."

Insensibly the painter was led into confidences, and confessed
his love. The moment he mentioned the Rue de Suresnes, and a
young girl living on the fourth floor, "Stop, stop," cried
Souchet lightly. "A little girl I see every morning at the Church
of the Assumption, and with whom I have a flirtation. But, my
dear fellow, we all know her. The mother is a Baroness. Do you
really believe in a Baroness living up four flights of stairs?
Brrr! Why, you are a relic of the golden age! We see the old
mother here, in this avenue, every day; why, her face, her
appearance, tell everything. What, have you not known her for
what she is by the way she holds her bag?"