"Some day, mademoiselle, I will tell you,--not now. I beg you to excuse me just now."

"Certainly, monsieur; but, pardon me, she must be ill,--and her face is heavenly!"

"Is it?" asked Jean. "I had not noticed. Perhaps because one heavenly face is all I can see at the same time."

"Ah, monsieur!"

She tried to hide her confusion in a sip of champagne.

M. Marot and Lerouge became suddenly interested in a sketch upon the wall and rose, puffing their cigars, to make a closer and more leisurely examination.

Jean's hand somehow came in contact with Andree's,--does any one know how these things come about?--and the girl's cheeks grew more rosy than usual. She straightway forgot Mlle. Fouchette. Her eyes were lowered and she gently removed her hand from the table.

"Here is the true model for an artist," said he.

"But I never sat," she declared.

"Oh, don't be too sure."

"Never; wouldn't I remember it?"

"Perhaps not. One doesn't always remember everything."

She blushed through her smile. She had unconsciously yielded her hand again.

They talked airy nothings that conceal the thoughts. Then, in a few minutes, she discovered that his hand again covered hers and was innocently caressing it. She drew it away in alarm.

"Do not take it away! Are we not cousins, mademoiselle?"

"Oh, yes; funny, isn't it? Long-lost cousins!" She laughed merrily.

"And now that we are found----"

"It seems to me as if I had known you a long time," she continued,--"for years and years! Or, perhaps it is because--because----"

"Come! let me show you something," he interrupted, still retaining the hand, "some poor sketches of mine."

He led her to the portfolio-stand in the corner and seated himself at her feet.

The elder connoisseurs, meanwhile, had taken the sketch in which they were interested from its place on the wall to the better light at the table.

"'La Pet.i.te Chatte.'"

"An expressive t.i.tle, truly."

"Why, its Mademoiselle Fouchette!" exclaimed M. Marot, holding the picture off at arm's length.

"It is, indeed! And the real Fouchette as I last beheld her at the notorious Cafe Barrate. It's the 'Savatiere'! That solves a mystery."

Lerouge thereupon took M. Marot by the arm, replaced the picture on the wall, and led the old gentleman to the corner farthest from that occupied by the younger couple, and there the two conversed over their cigars in a low tone for a long time.

In that time they had mutually disposed of the other couple,--Henri Lerouge, as brother and legal custodian of Mlle. Andree Remy; M.

Marot, as father of Jean Marot. They had not only agreed that these two should marry, but had arranged as to the amount of the "dot" of the girl and the settlement upon the young man. Mlle. Andree had two hundred and fifty thousand francs in her own right, but the chief consideration in the case was, to M. Marot, the fact that she was the daughter of the beautiful woman whom he had once loved. For this consideration he agreed to double the amount of her dot and give his son a junior partnership in the silk manufactory at Lyons.

This arrangement had no relation whatever to the sentiment existing between the young couple. It would have been concluded, just the same, if they had not loved.

In French matrimonial matters love is a mere detail. The parents, or those who stand in the place of parents, are the absolute masters, and therefore the high contracting powers. Sons as well as daughters are subject to this will until after marriage. It is a custom strong as statute law. If inclination coincide with parental desire, well and good; if not, a social system which rears young orphan girls to feed the insatiate l.u.s.t of Paris winks at the secret lover and the mistress.

With the reasonable certainty of the approval of both father and brother and with a heart surcharged with love for the sweet girl whom he felt was not indifferent to him, Jean had reason to feel happy and confident. As they bent over the pictures they formed a charming picture themselves.

"Really, monsieur!"

Mlle. Remy saw herself reproduced with such faithfulness that she started.

"Well?"

Jean looked up in her face with all his pa.s.sion concentrated in his eyes.

She was bending over the head of a young girl with a profusion of fair hair down upon her shoulders, and she forgot. Another showed the same face in a pen-and-ink profile, with the same glorious hair.

"They are amateurish----"

"Au contraire," she interrupted, "they are quite--but Henri did not tell me, monsieur, that you were an artist."

"And he was right, cousin."

She had turned her face away from the light, so he could not see her blushes. For these pictures told a story of love more vividly and more eloquently than words. She was trying to piece out that which remained untold.

"The pictures are well done, Cousin Jean,--and your model----"

"Fouchette."

"Oh, yes; I see now! She is a model, truly!"

Mlle. Remy seemed to derive a good deal of satisfaction from this conclusion.

[Ill.u.s.tration: IT WAS A CRITICAL MOMENT]

"But," she added, quickly, "do you think she looks so much like me?"

"A mere suggestion," he said.

"It is curious,--very curious, mon--Cousin Jean; but do you know----"

Their heads were very close together. Unconsciously their lips met.

Mlle. Fouchette had been engaged in the work of washing dishes. It was an excuse to kill time and something to occupy her attention. As she carefully arranged everything in its place she realized that it was for the last occasion. She knew her work was done. So she made everything particularly bright and clean. The dessert dishes and gla.s.ses were still on the table, and she had stepped out cautiously and timidly to fetch them. It was a critical moment.