emed to her like a tocsin, a summons to
love. But nothing put her on the track of those orgies of actors and
actresses; nothing revealed to her those temples of debauchery which she
imagined opened at some magic word, like the cave in the _Arabian
Nights_, or those catacombs in Rome, where the mysteries of a persecuted
religion were secretly celebrated.

Her relations, who were quite middle-class people, could not introduce
her to any of those well-known men with whose names her head was full,
and in despair she was thinking of returning, when chance came to her
aid. One day, as she was going along the _Rue de la Chaussee d'Antin_,
she stopped to look into a shop full of those colored Japanese
knick-knacks, which strike the eye on account of their color. She was
looking at the little ivory buffoons, the tall vases of flaming enamel,
and the curious bronzes, when she heard the shop-keeper dilating, with
many bows, on the value of an enormous, pot-bellied, comical figure,
which was quite unique, he said, to a little, bald-headed, gray-bearded
man.

Every moment, the shop-keeper repeated his customer's name, which was a
celebrated one, in a voice like a trumpet. The other customers, young
women and well-dressed gentlemen, gave a swift and furtive, but
respectful glance at the celebrated writer, who was looking admiringly
at the china figure. They were both equally ugly, as ugly as two
brothers who had sprung from the same mother.

"I will let you have it for a thousand francs, Monsieur Varin, and that
is exactly what it cost me. I should ask anybody else fifteen hundred,
but I think a great deal of literary and artistic customers, and have
special prices for them. They all come to me, Monsieur Varin. Yesterday,
Monsieur Busnach bought a large, antique goblet of me, and the other day
I sold two candelabra like this (is it not handsome?) to Monsieur
Alexander Dumas. If Monsieur Zola were to see that Japanese figure, he
would buy it immediately, Monsieur Varin."

The author hesitated in perplexity, as he wanted to have the figure, but
the price was above him, and he thought no more about her looking at him
than if he had been alone in the desert. She came in trembling, with her
eyes fixed shamelessly upon him, and she did not even ask herself
whether he were good-looking, elegant or young. It was Jean Varin
himself, Jean Varin. After a long struggle, and painful hesitation, he
put the figure down onto the table. "No, it i