Mouillard, did I do my errand well?"

"What errand?"

"The important one, about the portrait at the Salon."

"Oh, yes; very well indeed. I must thank you."

"She came?"

"Yes, with her father."

"She must have been pleased! The drawing was so pretty. Plumet, who is
not much of a talker, is never tired of praising it. I tell you, he and
I did not spare ourselves. He made a bit of a fuss before he would take
the order; he was in a hurry--such a hurry; but when he saw that I was
bent on it he gave in. And it is not the first time he has given in.
Plumet is a good soul, Monsieur Mouillard. When you know him better
you will see what a good soul he is. Well, while he was cutting out the
frame, I went to the porter's wife. What a business it was! I am glad my
errand was successful!"

"It was too good of you, Madame Plumet; but it was useless, alas! she is
to marry another."

"Marry another? Impossible!"

I thought Madame Plumet was about to faint. Had she heard that her son
Pierre had the croup, she could not have been more upset. Her
bosom heaved, she clasped her hands, and gazed at me with sorrowful
compassion.

"Poor Monsieur Mouillard!"

And two tears, two real tears, coursed down Madame Plumet's cheeks. I
should have liked to catch them. They were the only tears that had been
shed for me by a living soul since my mother died.

I had to tell her all, every word, down to my rival's name. When she
heard that it was Baron Dufilleul, her indignation knew no bounds. She
exclaimed that the Baron was an awful man; that she knew all sorts of
things about him! Know him? she should think so! That such a union was
impossible, that it could never take place, that Plumet, she knew, would
agree with her:

"Madame Plumet," I said, "we have strayed some distance from the
business which brought you here. Let us return to your affairs; mine are
hopeless, and you can not remedy them."

She got up trembling, her eyes red and her feelings a little hurt.

"My action? Oh, no! I can't attend to it to-day. I've no heart to talk
about my business. What you've told me has made me too unhappy. Another
day, Monsieur Mouillard, another day."

She left me with a look of mystery, and a pressure of the hand which
seemed to say: "Rely on me!"

Poor woman!

CHAPTER XII. I GO TO ITALY

June 10th.

In the train. We have passed the fortifications. The stuccoed houses of
the suburbs, the factories, taverns, and gloomy hovels in