let me have my own way. The picture is my portrait, that is why I would rather you should have it than any one else. It is really pretty; it is an Angel weeping; the idea is mine, it might be called the Angel of Repentance. Is it agreed?"
"Yes, but I must pay you a thousand francs,—a Vidal is worth all of that."
"Honorable people are so queer! So suspicious of love, they like to make others feel they are free from all obligation to them and have nothing in common with them. Put aside five hundred francs. I promise you to come some day and get them. There, does that please your pride, are your scruples satisfied?"
"You are then entirely"
"Ruined? Yes, I am. I have missed my vocation, the down fall has come. I have been selling and selling, and yet I cannot stop all the holes."
"What will you do?"
"Do?" She hesitated.
"I will try to live quietly. You will give me then your advice for the third time?"
"You never follow my suggestion."
"Reproaches? Is this your discount?"
She took the five hundred francs and left. One hour later I had the drawing by Vidal.
About three years ago, I received the following note, "I will be at your door tomorrow morning at nine. Try and see me alone, and give me a whole hour of your precious time. Important business."
She came on foot. She was rather pale, and a little thinner, dressed in black; her shoes were not immaculate, her gloves worn at the finger ends. She was no longer pretty, but beautiful, misfortune gave gravity to her form and features. Sorrow has the faculty of degrading or ennobling the countenance and the manners. She has lived as reckless an episode as a women can, her sufferings were the natural sequence, yet she elicited sympathy. She bore her changed condition
