After settling her little daughter, she would come and sit in an armchair near the newly begun sketch, and tried, according to the artist's recommendation, to give some expression to her physiognomy. In the midst of the fourth sitting, he suddenly ceased painting and inquired: “What amuses you more than anything else in life?” She appeared somewhat embarrassed. “Why, I hardly know. Why this question?” “I need a happy thought in those eyes, and I have not seen it yet.” “Well, try to make me talk; I like very much to chat.” “Are you gay?” “Very gay.” “Well, then, let us chat, Madame.” He had said “Let us chat, Madame,” in a very grave tone; then, resuming his painting, he touched upon a variety of subjects, seeking something on which their minds could meet. They began by exchanging observations on the people that both knew; then they talked of themselves--always the most agreeable and fascinating subject for a chat. When they met again the next day they felt more at ease, and Bertin, noting that he pleased and amused her, began to relate some of the details of his artist life, allowing himself to give free scope to his reminiscences, in a fanciful way that was peculiar to him. Accustomed to the dignified presence of the literary lights of the salons, the Countess was surprised by this almost wild gaiety, which said unusual things quite frankly, enlivening them with irony; and presently she began to answer in the same way, with a grace at once daring and delicate. In a week's time she had conquered and charmed him by her good humor, frankness, and simplicity. He had entirely forgotten his prejudices against fashionable women, and would willingly have declared that they alone had charm and fascination. As he painted, standing before his canvas, advancing and retreating, with the movements of a man fighting, he allowed his fancy to flow freely, as if he had known for a long time this pretty woman, blond and black, made of sunlight and mourning, seated before him, laughing and listening, answering him gaily with so much animation that she lost her pose every moment. Sometimes he would move far away from her, closing one eye, leaning over for a searching study of his model's pose; then he would draw very near to her to note the slightest shadows of her face, to catch the most fleeting expression, to seize and reproduce that which is in a woman's face beyond its more outward appearance; that emanation of ideal beauty, that reflection of something indescribable, that personal and intimate charm peculiar to each, which causes her to be loved to distraction by one and not by another. One afternoon the little girl advanced, and, planting herself before the canvas, inquired with childish gravity: “That is mamma, isn't it?” The artist took her in his arms to kiss her, flattered by that naïve homage to the resemblance of his work. Another day, when she had been very quiet, they suddenly heard her say, in a sad little voice: