“Yes,” I actually or almost said to myself, “what a dream it would be to be loved by a woman like Camille! Just free enough to give long hours to her lover and not free enough to absorb his time; enough of an artist to understand the most delicate and subtle shades of impression; natural enough to be amused at the Bohemian caprices, which are so savoury when they are not accompanied by misery; enthusiastic enough for a constant encouragement to work to emanate from her, and too spontaneous, too sincere to ever drive you to that slavery to success, which is the fatal influence of so many mistresses and wives. And then what an adorable lover she would be! Was it a rare tint of soul, which the story she told me yesterday had, and was it different from the ones in the heads of her little friends? A rich protector and much advertisement is the usual ideal of such girls! The only actress who thinks differently must needs meet with Molan, the cold machine for producing prolific copy. But what is the use of my understanding and appreciating her like this, when I am on my way to contribute to the closeness of their intimacy? What absurd chance made me meet Jacques yesterday evening? That must happen to me: it is the symbol of our whole lives, his and mine. I am, or rather am ready to be, the man who really loves; he is the lover. I have the sensibility of a real artist, while he achieves works and reaps the glory of them. Meanwhile I am wasting a very clear morning and my picture is at a standstill. Ah, I shall soon be back and I will send for Malvina. I will work all the afternoon, I will make up for lost time. Directly my commission is executed I will hurry away. I am rather curious to see how the animal is lodged. He must be making just now from 80,000 to 100,000 francs a year, and it is a great change from his former position.” It was a long time since I had called upon my old friend. While the lift-man whisked me up to the second floor, where he lived, of a large new house with bow windows of coloured glass, I recalled the numerous quarters where I had known this author, who was such a clever administrator of his wealth and talents, and ran over in my mind his rapid advance along the highway of Parisan glory. First of all on leaving college he had a little furnished room in the Rue Monsieur le Prince. A portrait of Baudelaire by Félicien Rops and a few bad medallions by David constituted the personal furniture of this retreat. The fastidious arrangement of the books, papers and pens on the table already testified to the worker’s strong will.