Ventrillon lifted the hat of eight reflections and bowed--with a grace, and hoped nobody saw him do it. Sabrin’s mild eyes deepened as if he had been a dog and Ventrillon had struck him, but Clo-clo gave a delighted little scream of amusement. “I do not think,” reflected Ventrillon, his ears blazing as he walked on, “that I shall frequent the Closerie des Lilas any more.” As that was the only place in Paris where might be found a friend to buy him a dinner, and the reason for his walking the long distance from the Étoile to the Rue Jacob was that he had not even the price of a Métro ticket, Ventrillon went to bed early that night, imploring sleep to quiet his hunger. FIFTH REFLECTION If it had not been for the sandwiches the Belletaille served with her tea and the suppers to which she had him invited, Ventrillon might have starved. But in the smart company at those suppers in fashionable restaurants he had begun to wonder how he had ever been able to endure the shabbiness of the Closerie des Lilas. And every day he could glimpse his image in the shop windows as he wore the hat of eight reflections along the boulevards to the doorway of the greatest singer in Paris. She had arranged with Volland for a public exhibition of the portrait in his celebrated galleries on the day after it was finished. Volland well knew that the portrait of such a woman could not fail to bring _tout Paris_ in crowds to his doors. After the _cachet_ of a commission from the Belletaille and an exhibition at Volland’s, other commissions would begin to pour in to Ventrillon, and complete success would follow rapidly. He who now wore a hat of eight reflections with bravado could then wear it with authority. Ventrillon would be a personage of _tout Paris_. Cannot one well bear one’s hunger for that? Enthroned in a tall-backed Spanish chair draped with cloth of gold, the Belletaille sat in emerald green and all her make-up. She insisted upon the make-up. “Without it,” she said, “the portrait would not be decent. You might as well paint me in the nude.” Ventrillon worked in rapt absorption. He was doing the most brilliant bit of painting he had ever done, and this youth with the bright face of an archangel could paint like the devil himself. “It is my chance,” he said to himself as the composition took form on the canvas with which the Belletaille had supplied him, “and I am going to startle the natives.” She refused to look at the portrait. “The Belletaille is beautiful,” she said, “and an unfinished painting is not. I shall wait until it is hung in a good light at Volland’s.” During the _repos_ she would sing to him, or feed him with sandwiches and tea. The number of sandwiches he ate astonished and delighted her. “He is a true original,” she thought. “They always eat like that. Besides, he has such nice eyes.”