whose magnificences I loved to dream. Why
not dream therefore in the Place Vendome? Surely my aspirations in those
days soared as high as the Column, and surely the student's garb
(beloved and ordained by Paragot)--the mushroom-shaped cap, the tight
ankled, tight throated velveteens--rendered any eccentricity a
commonplace. Early Spring too was in the air, which encourages the young
visionary. Spruce young men and tripping _modistes_ with bandboxes under
their arms and the sun glinting over their trim bare heads hurried along
through the traffic across the Place and landed on the pavement by my
side. I must own to have been not unaffected by the tripping milliners.
Why should they not weave themselves too into a painter lad's spring
visions?

Suddenly a lady--of so radiant a loveliness as to send _modistes_
packing from my head--emerged from the Hotel Bristol and crossed the
broad pavement to a waiting victoria. She had eyes like the blue of
glaciers and the tenderest mouth in the world. She glanced at me. A
floppy picturesque Paris student, lounging springlike in the Place
Vendome, is worth a fair lady's glance of curiosity. I raised my cap.
She glanced at me again, haughtily; then again, puzzled; then stopped.

"If I don't know you, you are a very ill-bred young man to have saluted
me," she said in French. "But I think I have seen you before."

"If I had not met you before I should not have bowed. You are the
Comtesse de Verneuil," said I in English, very boyishly and eagerly. The
spring and the sight of Joanna had sent the blood into my pasty cheeks.

"I once played the tambourine at Aix," I added.

She grew suddenly pale, put her hand to her heart and clutched at a
bunch of Parma violets she was wearing. They fell to the ground.

"No, no, it is nothing," she said, as I stepped forward. "Only a slight
shock. I remember you perfectly. You said your name was Asticot. I
asked you to come and see me. Why haven't you?"

"You said I might come if I were in want. But thanks to my dear Master I
am not." I picked up the violets.

"Your master?" She looked relieved, and thanked me with a smile for the
flowers. "He is well? He is with you in Paris? Is he still playing the
violin?"

"He is well," said I. "He is in Paris, but he only plays the violin at
home when, as he says, he wants to have a conversation with his soul."

The frost melted from her eyes and they smiled at me.

"You have caught his trick of talking."