silken embroidery,
colour of hope. The blessed coat, opened ready to slip on, lay spread on
an arm-chair, and Guillardin contemplated it tenderly as he arranged the
bow of his white tie.

"Above all no hurry," thought the good fellow. "I have plenty of time."

The fact is that in his feverish impatience he had dressed a couple of
hours too soon; and the beautiful Madame Guillardin--always very slow
over her dressing--had positively declared that on this day she would
only be ready at the precise moment--not a minute earlier, do you hear!

Unfortunate Guillardin! What could he do to kill the time?

"Well, all the same, I will try on my coat," he said, and gently as
though he were handling tulle and lace, he lifted the precious frippery,
and having donned it with infinite precaution, he placed himself in
front of his looking-glass. Oh! what a charming picture the
mirror disclosed to him! What an amiable little Academician, freshly
hatched, happy, smiling, grizzled, and protuberant, with arms too short
in proportion to his figure, which in the new sleeves acquired a stiff
and automatic dignity!

[Illustration: p213-224]

Thoroughly satisfied with his appearance, Guillardin marched up and
down, bowed as though entering the Academy, smiled to his colleagues of
the fine arts, and assumed academical attitudes. Nevertheless, whatever
pride one may feel at one's personal appearance, it is impossible to
remain two hours in full dress, before a looking-glass. At last our
Academician felt somewhat fatigued, and fearful lest he should rumple
his coat, made up his mind to take it off and lay it back very carefully
on the arm-chair. Then seating himself opposite on the other side of the
fireplace, with his legs stretched out and his two hands crossed over
his dress waistcoat, he began to indulge in sweet dreams as he gazed at
the green coat.

Like the traveller who, arrived at the end of his journey, likes
to remember the dangers and difficulties that have beset his path,
Guillardin retraced his life, year by year, from the day when he began
to learn modelling in Jouffroy's studio. Ah! the outset is hard in that
confounded profession. He remembered the fireless winters, the sleepless
nights, the endless walks in search of work, the desperate rage
experienced at feeling so small, so lost, and unknown in the immense
crowd that pushes, hustles, upsets, and crushes. And yet all alone,
without patronage or money, he had managed to