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　meI　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；
  respectyou　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
  dear　fellow；　we　all　know　her。　The　mother　is　a　Baroness。　Do　you
  really　believe　in　a　Baroness　living　up　four　flights　of　stairs？
  Brrr！　Why；　you　are　a　relic　of　the　golden　age！　We　see　the　old
  mother　here；　in　this　avenue；　every　day；　why；　her　face；　her
  appearance；　tell　everything。　What；　have　you　not　known　her　for
  what　she　is　by　the　way　she　holds　her　bag？〃
  The　two　friends　walked　up　and　down　for　some　time；　and　several
  young　men　who　knew　Souchet　or　Schinner　joined　them。　The　painter's
  adventure；　which　the　sculptor　regarded　as　unimportant；　was
  repeated　by　him。
  〃So　he；　too；　has　seen　that　young　lady！〃　said　Souchet。
  And　then　there　were　comments；　laughter；　innocent　mockery；　full　of
  the　liveliness　familiar　to　artists；　but　which　pained　Hippolyte
  frightfully。　A　certain　native　reticence　made　him　uncomfortable　as
  he　saw　his　heart's　secret　so　carelessly　handled；　his　passion
  rent；　torn　to　tatters；　a　young　and　unknown　girl；　whose　life
  seemed　to　be　so　modest；　the　victim　of　condemnation；　right　or
  wrong；　but　pronounced　with　such　reckless　indifference。　He
  pretended　to　be　moved　by　a　spirit　of　contradiction；　asking　each
  for　proofs　of　his　assertions；　and　their　jests　began　again。
  〃But；　my　dear　boy；　have　you　seen　the　Baroness'　shawl？〃　asked
  Souchet。
  〃Have　you　ever　followed　the　girl　when　she　patters　off　to　church
  in　the　morning？〃　said　Joseph　Bridau；　a　young　dauber　in　Gros'
  studio。
  〃Oh；　the　mother　has　among　other　virtues　a　certain　gray　gown；
  which　I　regard　as　typical；〃　said　Bixiou；　the　caricaturist。
  〃Listen；　Hippolyte；〃　the　sculptor　went　on。　〃Come　here　at　about
  four　o'clock；　and　just　study　the　walk　of　both　mother　and
  daughter。　If　after　that　you　still　have　doubts！　well；　no　one　can
  ever　make　anything　of　you；　you　would　be　capable　of　marrying　your
  porter's　daughter。
  Torn　by　the　most　conflicting　feelings；　the　painter　parted　from
  his　friends。　It　seemed　to　him　that　Adelaide　and　her　mother　must
  be　superior　to　these　accusations；　and　at　the　bottom　of　his　heart
  he　was　filled　with　remorse　for　having　suspected　the　purity　of
  this　beautiful　and　simple　girl。　He　went　to　his　studio；　passing
  the　door　of　the　rooms　where　Adelaide　was；　and　conscious　of　a　pain
  at　his　heart　which　no　man　can　misapprehend。　He　loved　Mademoiselle
  de　Rouville　so　passionately　that；　in　spite　of　the　theft　of　the
  purse；　he　still　worshiped　her。　His　love　was　that　of　the　Chevalier
  des　Grieux　admiring　his　mistress；　and　holding　her　as　pure；　even
  on　the　cart　which　carries　such　lost　creatures　to　prison。　〃Why
  should　not　my　love　keep　her　the　purest　of　women？　Why　abandon　her
  to　evil　and　to　vice　without　holding　out　a　rescuing　hand　to　her？〃
  The　idea　of　this　mission　pleased　him。　Love　makes　a　gain　of
  everything。　Nothing　tempts　a　young　man　more　than　to　play　the　part
  of　a　good　genius　to　a　woman。　There　is　something　inexplicably
  romantic　in　such　an　enterprise　which　appeals　to　a　highly…strung
  soul。　Is　it　not　the　utmost　stretch　of　devotion　under　the　loftiest
  and　most　engaging　aspect？　Is　there　not　something　grand　in　the
  thought　that　we　love　enough　still　to　love　on　when　the　love　of
  others　dwindles　and　dies？
  Hippolyte　sat　down　in　his　studio；　gazed　at　his　picture　without
  doing　anything　to　it；　seeing　the　figures　through　tears　that
  swelled　in　his　eyes；　holding　his　brush　in　his　hand；　going　up　to
  the　canvas　as　if　to　soften　down　an　effect；　but　not　touching　it。
  Night　fell；　and　he　was　still　in　this　attitude。　Roused　from　his
  moodiness　by　the　darkness；　he　went　downstairs；　met　the　old
  admiral　on　the　way；　looked　darkly　at　him　as　he　bowed；　and　fled。
  He　had　intended　going　in　to　see　the　ladies；　but　the　sight　of
  Adelaide's　protector　froze　his　heart　and　dispelled　his　purpose。
  For　the　hundredth　time　he　wondered　what　interest　could　bring　this
  old　prodigal；　with　his　eighty　thousand　francs　a　year；　to　this
  fourth　story；　where　he　lost　about　forty　francs　every　evening；　and
  he　thought　he　could　guess　what　it　was。
  The　next　and　following　days　Hippolyte　threw　himself　into　his
  work；　and　to　try　to　conquer　his　passion　by　the　swift　rush　of
  ideas　and　the　ardor　of　composition。　He　half　succeeded。　Study
  consoled　him；　though　it　could　not　smother　the　memories　of　so　many
  tender　hours　spent　with　Adelaide。
  One　evening；　as　he　left　his　studio；　he　saw　the　door　of　the
  ladies'　rooms　half　open。　Somebody　was　standing　in　the　recess　of
  the　window；　and　the　position　of　the　door　and　the　staircase　made
  it　impossible　that　the　painter　should　pass　without　seeing
  Adelaide。　He　bowed　coldly；　with　a　glance　of　supreme　indifference；
  but　judging　of　the　girl's　suffering　by　his　own；　he　felt　an　inward
  shudder　as　he　reflected　on　the　bitterness　which　that　look　and
  that　coldness　must　produce　in　a　loving　heart。　To　crown　the　most
  delightful　feast　which　ever　brought　joy　to　two　pure　souls；　by
  eight　days　of　disdain；　of　the　deepest　and　most　utter　contempt！A
  frightful　conclusion。　And　perhaps　the　purse　had　been　found；
  perhaps　Adelaide　had　looked　for　her　friend　every　evening。
  This　simple　and　natural　idea　filled　the　lover　with　fresh　remorse；
  he　asked　himself　whether　the　proofs　of　attachment　given　him　by
  the　young　girl；　the　delightful　talks；　full　of　the　love　that　had
  so　charmed　him；　did　not　deserve　at　least　an　inquiry；　were　not
  wo