ever make anything of you; you would be capable of marrying your
porter's daughter."

Torn by the most conflicting feelings, the painter parted from
his friends. It seemed to him that Adelaide and her mother must
be superior to these accusations, and at the bottom of his heart
he was filled with remorse for having suspected the purity of
this beautiful and simple girl. He went to his studio, passing
the door of the rooms where Adelaide was, and conscious of a pain
at his heart which no man can misapprehend. He loved Mademoiselle
de Rouville so passionately that, in spite of the theft of the
purse, he still worshiped her. His love was that of the Chevalier
des Grieux admiring his mistress, and holding her as pure, even
on the cart which carries such lost creatures to prison. "Why
should not my love keep her the purest of women? Why abandon her
to evil and to vice without holding out a rescuing hand to her?"

The idea of this mission pleased him. Love makes a gain of
everything. Nothing tempts a young man more than to play the part
of a good genius to a woman. There is something inexplicably
romantic in such an enterprise which appeals to a highly-strung
soul. Is it not the utmost stretch of devotion under the loftiest
and most engaging aspect? Is there not something grand in the
thought that we love enough still to love on when the love of
others dwindles and dies?

Hippolyte sat down in his studio, gazed at his picture without
doing anything to it, seeing the figures through tears that
swelled in his eyes, holding his brush in his hand, going up to
the canvas as if to soften down an effect, but not touching it.