Near this slender and dangerous creature, so blonde and white in the dead-black sheath of her spangled corsage and skirt, Senneterre, “the beater,” was sitting on a very low chair, almost a footstool, while Pierre de Bonnivet warmed at the fire the soles of his pumps as he talked to my master Miraut. The latter seemed somewhat surprised, and not very pleased to see me. Dear old master; if he only knew how wrong he was in thinking that I was his rival for a 20,000-franc portrait! But this pastel merchant comes of the race of good giants. Besides his six foot in height, and suppleness from exercise, his porter’s shoulders, broadened still more by his daily boxing, his Francis I profile, sensual, fine, and gluttonous, he has retained, beneath the trickery of the profession, a generous temperament. So he received me with a friendly though a little too patronizing greeting! “Ah! then you know my pupil?” he said to Madam de Bonnivet. “He has great ability, only he lacks assurance and confidence in himself.” “But there are so many who have too much of these qualities,” the young woman interposed, casting an evil glance at the pastelist who seemed disconcerted. “He makes up for them.” “Good!” I thought, “she is not in a good humour, nor even polite. It is quite true that Miraut is a little too conceited. But he is a man of great talent, who has done her a great honour by coming here. How bad-tempered she looks this evening! Bonnivet, too, looks preoccupied in spite of his mask of gaiety! I will stand by what I told Jacques the other day. I would not trust either the woman or the husband. These cold-looking blondes are capable of anything, and so are strong full-blooded men like the husband. Now we shall see Jacques’ manœuvre. To think that he could be so happy quite simply with his little friend! Life is really very badly arranged.”