I suppose it is one of the pictures you ordered.
Such a magnificent order ought to give her fairy-fingers. But she is
not in earnest. I can't say anything to her; I am afraid of her. One
evening, last summer, when I took her to walk in the Champs Elysees, she
said some things to me that frightened me."

"What were they?"

"Excuse an unhappy father from telling you," said M. Nioche, unfolding
his calico pocket-handkerchief.

Newman promised himself to pay Mademoiselle Noemie another visit at the
Louvre. He was curious about the progress of his copies, but it must
be added that he was still more curious about the progress of the young
lady herself. He went one afternoon to the great museum, and wandered
through several of the rooms in fruitless quest of her. He was bending
his steps to the long hall of the Italian masters, when suddenly he
found himself face to face with Valentin de Bellegarde. The young
Frenchman greeted him with ardor, and assured him that he was a
godsend. He himself was in the worst of humors and he wanted some one to
contradict.

"In a bad humor among all these beautiful things?" said Newman. "I
thought you were so fond of pictures, especially the old black ones.
There are two or three here that ought to keep you in spirits."

"Oh, to-day," answered Valentin, "I am not in a mood for pictures, and
the more beautiful they are the less I like them. Their great staring
eyes and fixed positions irritate me. I feel as if I were at some big,
dull party, in a room full of people I shouldn't wish to speak to. What
should I care for their beauty? It's a bore, and, worse still, it's a
reproach. I have a great many ennuis; I feel vicious."

"If the Louvre has so little comfort for you, why in the world did you
come here?" Newman asked.

"That is one of my ennuis. I came to meet my cousin--a dreadful English
cousin, a member of my mother's family--who is in Paris for a week for
her husband, and who wishes me to point out the 'principal beauties.'
Imagine a woman who wears a green crape bonnet in December and has
straps sticking out of the ankles of her interminable boots! My mother
begged I would do something to oblige them. I have undertaken to play
valet de place this afternoon. They were to have met me here at two
o'clock, and I have been waiting for them twenty minutes. Why doesn't
she arrive? She has at least a pair of feet to carry her. I don't know
whether to be furious at their playing me false,