“We can talk more quietly here,” she began. Then she sharply said: “Is your portrait of Mademoiselle Favier far advanced?” She had a way of questioning which betrayed the despotism of the rich and pretty woman who regards the person to whom she is talking in the light of a servant to amuse or inform her. Each time I come across this unconscious insolence in a fashionable doll an irresistible desire seizes me to give her a disagreeable answer. Jacques had without doubt speculated upon this trait of my character in making me play the part of exciter, which, however, I refused with such loyal energy to do. “The portrait of Mademoiselle Favier? Why, I have not even begun it,” I replied. “Ah!” she said with a nasty smile, “has Molan changed his mind and forbidden it? You are in love with the pretty little woman, M. la Croix, confess it?” “In love with her?” I replied. “Not the least bit in the world.” “It looked like it the other day,” she said, “and Jacques Molan was, in fact, a little bit jealous of you.” “All lovers are more or less jealous,” I interposed, and yielding to the desire I felt to hurt her, I added: “He is very wrong; Camille Favier loves him with all her heart, and she has a big heart.” “It is a great misfortune for her talent,” Madam de Bonnivet said, knitting her blonde brows just enough to let me know that I had struck home. “I cannot agree with you, madam,” I replied this time with conviction. “Little Favier has not only adorable beauty, but she has a sort of genius too, and a charming heart and mind.” “One would never suspect it from seeing her act,” she replied, “at least, in my opinion. But if so, it is worse still. Happiness has never yet inspired a writer. But I am sure this affair will not last long. Molan will find out that she has deceived him with a side scene with a member of the company and then——” “You are wrongly informed about this poor girl, madam,” I interrupted more quickly than was absolutely polite. “She is very noble, very proud, and quite incapable of a mean action.” “But that does not prevent her being kept by Molan,” she interrupted, “if my information is accurate, and eating up his author’s rights to the last sou.” “Kept!” I cried. “No, madam, your information is very inaccurate. If she desired luxury she could have it. She has refused a house, horses, dresses, jewels, and all the things which tempt one in her position, to give herself where her heart is. She loves Jacques with a most sincere and beautiful attachment.” “I pity her if you are right,” she said with a sneer; “for your friend is not much good.” “He is my friend,” I replied with an aggressive dryness, “and I am original enough to defend my friends.”