"Oh, I am too happy."

The painter bent his head and remained silent, frightened at the
vehemence of the feelings which her tones stirred in his heart.

Then, both understanding the perils of the situation, they went
downstairs and hung up the picture in its place. Hippolyte dined

for the first time with the Baroness, who, greatly overcome, and
drowned in tears, must needs embrace him.

In the evening the old emigre, the Baron de Rouville's old
comrade, paid the ladies a visit to announce that he had just

been promoted to the rank of vice-admiral. His voyages by land
over Germany and Russia had been counted as naval campaigns. On

seeing the portrait he cordially shook the painter's hand, and
exclaimed, "By Gad! though my old hulk does not deserve to be

perpetuated, I would gladly give five hundred pistoles to see
myself as like as that is to my dear old Rouville."

At this hint the Baroness looked at her young friend and smiled,
while her face lighted up with an expression of sudden gratitude.

Hippolyte suspected that the old admiral wished to offer him the
price of both portraits while paying for his own. His pride as an

artist, no less than his jealousy perhaps, took offence at the
thought, and he replied:

"Monsieur, if I were a portrait-painter I should not have done
this one."

The admiral bit his lip, and sat down to cards.
The painter remained near Adelaide, who proposed a dozen hands of

piquet, to which he agreed. As he played he observed in Madame de
Rouville an excitement over her game which surprised him. Never

before had the old Baroness manifested so ardent a desire to win,
or so keen a joy in fingering the old gentleman's gold pieces.

During the evening evil suspicions troubled Hippolyte's
happiness, and filled him with distrust. Could it be that Madame

de Rouville lived by gambling? Was she playing at this moment to
pay off some debt, or under the pressure of necessity? Perhaps

she had not paid her rent. The old man seemed shrewd enough not
to allow his money to be taken with impunity. What interest

attracted him to this poverty-stricken house, he who was rich?
Why, when he had formerly been so familiar with Adelaide, had he

given up the rights he had acquired, and which were perhaps his
due?

These involuntaryreflections prompted him to watch the old man
and the Baroness, whose meaning looks and certain sidelong

glances cast at Adelaide displeased him. "Am I being duped?" was
Hippolyte's last idea--horrible, scathing, for he believed it

just enough to be tortured by it. He determined to stay after the
departure of the two old men, to confirm or dissipate his

suspicions. He drew out his purse to pay Adelaide; but carried
away by his poignant thoughts, he laid it on the table, falling

into a reverie of brief duration; then, ashamed of his silence,
he rose, answered some commonplace question from Madame de

Rouville, and went close up to her to examine the withered
features while he was talking to her.

He went away, racked by a thousand doubts. He had gone down but a
few steps when he turned back to fetch the forgotten purse.

"I left my purse here!" he said to the young girl.
"No," she said, reddening.

"I thought it was there," and he pointed to the card-table. Not
finding it, in his shame for Adelaide and the Baroness, he looked

at them with a blank amazement that made them laugh, turned pale,
felt his waistcoat, and said, "I must have made a mistake. I have

it somewhere no doubt."
In one end of the purse there were fifteen louis d'or, and in the

other some small change. The theft was so flagrant, and denied
with such effrontery, that Hippolyte no longer felt a doubt as to

his neighbors' morals. He stood still on the stairs, and got down
with some difficulty; his knees shook, he felt dizzy, he was in a

cold sweat, he shivered, and found himself unable to walk,
struggling, as he was, with the agonizing shock caused by the

destruction of all his hopes. And at this moment he found lurking
in his memory a number of observations, trifling in themselves,

but which corroborated his frightful suspicions, and which, by
proving the certainty of this last incident, opened his eyes as

to the character and life of these two women.
Had they really waited till the portrait was given them before

robbing him of his purse? In such a combination the theft was
even more odious. The painter recollected that for the last two

or three evenings Adelaide, while seeming to examine with a
girl's curiosity the particular stitch of the worn silk netting,

was probably counting the coins in the purse, while making some
light jests, quite innocent in appearance, but no doubt with the

object of watching for a moment when the sum was worth stealing.
"The old admiral has perhaps good reasons for not marrying

Adelaide, and so the Baroness has tried----"
But at this hypothesis he checked himself, not finishing his

thought, which was contradicted by a very just reflection, "If
the Baroness hopes to get me to marry her daughter," thought he,

"they would not have robbed me."
Then, clinging to his illusions, to the love that already had

taken such deep root, he tried to find a justification in some
accident. "The purse must have fallen on the floor," said he to

himself, "or I left it lying on my chair. Or perhaps I have it
about me--I am so absent-minded!" He searched himself with

hurried movements, but did not find the ill-starred purse. His
memory cruelly retraced the fatal truth, minute by minute. He

distinctly saw the purse lying on the green cloth; but then,
doubtful no longer, he excused Adelaide, telling himself that

persons in misfortune should not be so hastily condemned. There
was, of course, some secret behind this apparently degrading

action. He would not admit that that proud and noble face was a
lie.

At the same time the wretched rooms rose before him, denuded of
the poetry of love which beautifies everything; he saw them dirty

and faded, regarding them as emblematic of an inner life devoid
of honor, idle and vicious. Are not our feelings written, as it

were, on the things about us?
Next morning he rose, not having slept. The heartache, that

terrible malady of the soul, had made rapid inroads. To lose the
bliss we dreamed of, to renounce our whole future, is a keener

pang than that caused by the loss of known happiness, however
complete it may have been; for is not Hope better than Memory?

The thoughts into which our spirit is suddenly plunged are like a
shoreless sea, in which we may swim for a moment, but where our

love is doomed to drown and die. And it is a frightful death. Are
not our feelings the most glorious part of our life? It is this

partial death which, in certain delicate or powerful natures,
leads to the terrible ruin produced by disenchantment, by hopes

and passions betrayed. Thus it was with the young painter. He
went out at a very early hour to walk under the fresh shade of

the Tuileries, absorbed in his thoughts, forgetting everything in
the world.

There by chance he met one of his most intimate friends, a
school-fellow and studio-mate, with whom he had lived on better

terms than with a brother.
"Why, Hippolyte, what ails you?" asked Francois Souchet, the

young sculptor who had just won the first prize, and was soon to
set out for Italy.

"I am most unhappy," replied Hippolyte gravely.
"Nothing but a love affair can cause you grief. Money, glory,

respect--you lack nothing."
Insensibly the painter was led into confidences, and confessed

his love. The moment he mentioned the Rue de Suresnes, and a
young girl living on the fourth floor, "Stop, stop," cried

Souchet lightly. "A little girl I see every morning at the Church
of the Assumption, and with whom I have a flirtation. But, my