them the medaille d'honneur; an etching of a man's head, a large
engraving of the Virgin and Infant Jesus from the Salon Carre at the
Louvre, and the drawing which represents--

"Great Heavens! Sylvestre, she's perfectly lovely; she will make a great
mistake if she does not come and see herself!"

"She will come, my dear sir; but I shall not be there to see her."

"Are you going?"

"I leave you to stalk your game; be patient, and do not forget to come
and tell me the news this evening."

"I promise."

And Lampron vanished.

The drawing was hung about midway between two doorways draped with
curtains, that opened into the big galleries. I leaned against the
woodwork of one of them, and waited. On my left stretched a solitude
seldom troubled by the few visitors who risk themselves in the realms of
pen and pencil. These, too, only came to get fresh air, or to look down
on the many-colored crowd moving among the white statues below.

At my right, on the contrary, the battling currents of the crowd kept
passing and repassing, the provincial element easily distinguished by its
jaded demeanor. Stout, exhausted matrons, breathless fathers of
families, crowded the sofas, raising discouraged glances to the walls,
while around them turned and tripped, untiring as at a dance, legions of