rofusion was heaped. Adeline imagined that Josepha Mirah--whose
portrait by Joseph Bridau was the glory of the adjoining boudoir--must
be a singer of genius, a Malibran, and she expected to see a real star.
She was sorry she had come. But she had been prompted by a strong and
so natural a feeling, by such purely disinterested devotion, that she
collected all her courage for the interview. Besides, she was about to
satisfy her urgent curiosity, to see for herself what was the charm
of this kind of women, that they could extract so much gold from the
miserly ore of Paris mud.

The Baroness looked at herself to see if she were not a blot on all this
splendor; but she was well dressed in her velvet gown, with a little
cape trimmed with beautiful lace, and her velvet bonnet of the same
shade was becoming. Seeing herself still as imposing as any queen,
always a queen even in her fall, she reflected that the dignity of
sorrow was a match for the dignity of talent.

At last, after much opening and shutting of doors, she saw Josepha. The
singer bore a strong resemblance to Allori's _Judith_, which dwells in
the memory of all who have ever seen it in the Pitti palace, near the
door of one of the great rooms. She had the same haughty mien, the same
fine features, black hair simply knotted, and a yellow wrapper with
little embroidered flowers, exactly like the brocade worn by the
immortal homicide conceived of by Bronzino's nephew.

"Madame la Baronne, I am quite overwhelmed by the honor you do me in
coming here," said the singer, resolved to play her part as a great lady
with a grace.

She pushed forward an easy-chair for the Baroness and seated herself on
a stool. She discerned the faded beauty of the woman before her, and was
filled with pity as she saw her shaken by the nervous palsy that, on
the least excitement, became convulsive. She could read at a glance the
saintly life described to her of old by Hulot and Crevel; and she not
only ceased to think of a contest with her, she humiliated herself
before a superiority she appreciated. The great artist could admire what
the courtesan laughed to scorn.

"Mademoiselle, despair brought me here. It reduces us to any means--"

A look in Josepha's face made the Baroness feel that she had wounded
the woman from whom she hoped for so much, and she looked at her. Her
beseeching eyes extinguished the flash in Josepha's; the singer smiled.
It was a wordless dialogue of pathetic eloqu