“Tell me,” she demanded hungrily, “it is true that this portrait is great, is it not? It is something incredible, it is an amazing portrait, it is true that it will startle them, is it not?” “Mademoiselle,” said Ventrillon, “have I not said that it startles even me?” “Ah,” murmured the Belletaille, reassured, “then to-morrow! To-morrow! I will not look. I could not recapture the emotion. I must give them that emotion to-morrow! To-morrow at Volland’s! Let me kiss you upon your forehead--like a mother.” Ventrillon had not fully realized that no more than a single day lay between him and his triumph. Thus far, to _tout Paris_, he had been only a protégé of the Belletaille. That in itself was no small distinction. But within twenty-four hours, to-morrow, to-morrow at Volland’s, he would be Ventrillon, the most celebrated portrait-painter in Paris. As the Belletaille pressed her painted lips to his forehead, the remunerative applause of _tout Paris_ already resounded in his youthful ears. His heart began to beat faster, and his blood throbbed in his temples. “To-morrow!” he said, with eyes like stars. “To-morrow at Volland’s!” SIXTH REFLECTION Ventrillon brushed the hat of eight reflections until it shone again. He had eaten no luncheon, and was compelled to walk all the way, but he had become accustomed to both these facts. Besides, from under the gay awnings of the cafés along the boulevards people pointed him out to one another as he passed, and that was a compensation. As he neared the doorway of Volland’s his heart was beginning to swell in his chest, and his head was growing dizzy beneath the refulgent hat. To the point of discomfort the great exhibition salon was packed with _tout Paris_. Volland shoved his way about amid richly dressed shoulders, beaming upon them with his little pig-like eyes, and tugging at his goatee with joy. Luminous with electric light, and the only ornament of the barren gray expanse of his walls, the portrait dominated the hall. It was a tremendous success. Not only was it the portrait of the most conspicuous figure in Paris, but the brilliancy of colour and design was sensational. On every hand one heard: “Superb! Magnificent! One expects her to speak!” The crowd, already too closely pressed, increased, but nobody left the salon; for _tout Paris_ was waiting for a still greater sensation. The morning papers had announced that the Belletaille would arrive that afternoon to look upon her portrait for the first time. The Belletaille had seen to that. A new enthusiasm developed near the door and spread rapidly through the entire assembly. “It is she herself!” they whispered, and made way for her. It was the Belletaille. She was entering. She advanced to within a few yards of the portrait and halted for a magnificent moment, confronting her painted self. A young girl whispered excitedly: