The reply to my question as to the cause of Camille’s sadness was given me by Molan himself. I had not had any private conversation with him since our chance breakfast on the day previous to the first sitting. I did not expect to see him enter my studio that morning more than any other morning, knowing his rule to write four pages before midday, and the vigour with which this methodical purveyor of literature conformed to it. So when his voice disturbed me I was for a moment really apprehensive. The servant had opened the door without me hearing him, reclining as I was upon a divan turning over the portfolio of sketches as if I were rendered unconscious by my excess of anxiety. I had no time to form an hypothesis in my own mind. My unexpected visitor had realized my astonishment from my face, and he anticipated my questions by saying— “Yes, here I am! You did not expect me, did you? Make your mind easy, I am not come to inform you that Camille has asphyxiated herself with a coke fire of the latest fashion, nor that she has thrown herself into the Seine because of my bad conduct. By the way, the portrait is not a bad one. You have made progress, much progress, with it. But that is not the reason of my visit. Camille will be here directly, and I want you to tell her that I dined with you last evening, and that we did not separate till one o’clock this morning!” “You have conceived the brilliant idea of involving me in your lies,” I replied irritably “I thought I told you the part did not suit me.” “I know,” he said in a half apologetic tone obviously destined to wheedle me, “and I understand your scruples so thoroughly that I have left you in peace all this time. But matters progress in the other direction, and if you had been able to assist me, Bonnivet would no longer pass under the Arc de Triomphe. Excuse the pleasantry worthy of the late Paul de Kock. But this time it is not on my account, but for Camille’s sake; I want to spare her an unnecessary sorrow. Have you noticed how sad she has been lately?” “Yes, and thought it was a sorrow of your making.”