piece. An
easel with a picture upon it, covered with a green baize curtain, stood
in one corner. The young painter was in the centre of his studio, brush
and palette in hand. He was a dark, handsome young man, well built and
proportioned, with close-cut hair, and a curling beard flowing down over
his chest. His face was full of expression, and the energy and vigor
imprinted upon it formed a marked contrast to the appearance of
Mascarin's _protege_. Paul noticed that he did not wear the usual
painter's blouse, but was carefully dressed in the prevailing fashion.
As soon as he recognized Paul, Andre came forward with extended hand.
"Ah," said he, "I am pleased to see you, for I often wondered what had
become of you."

Paul was offended at this familiar greeting. "I have had many worries
and disappointments," said he.

"And Rose," said Andre, "how is she--as pretty as ever, I suppose?"

"Yes, yes," answered Paul negligently; "but you must forgive me for
having vanished so suddenly. I have come to repay your loan, with many
thanks."

"Pshaw!" returned the painter, "I never thought of the matter again;
pray, do not inconvenience yourself."

Again Paul felt annoyed, for he fancied that under the cloak of assumed
generosity the painter meant to humiliate him; and the opportunity of
airing his newly-found grandeur occurred to him.

"It was a convenience to me, certainly," said he, "but I am all right
now, having a salary of twelve thousand francs."

He thought that the artist would be dazzled, and that the mention of
this sum would draw from him some exclamations of surprise and envy.
Andre, however, made no reply, and Paul was obliged to wind up with the
lame conclusion, "And at my age that is not so bad."

"I should call it superb. Should I be indiscreet in asking what you are
doing?"

The question was a most natural one, but Paul could not reply to it,
as he was entirely ignorant as to what his employment was to be, and he
felt as angry as if the painter had wantonly insulted him.

"I work for it," said he, drawing himself up with such a strange
expression of voice and feature that Andre could not fail to notice it.

"I work too," remarked he; "I am never idle."

"But I have to work very hard," returned Paul, "for I have not, like
you, a friend or protector to interest himself in me."

Paul, who had not a particle of gratitude in his disposition, had
entirely forgotten Mascarin.

The artist was much amused