On receiving Monsieur Gaston’s letter, my first idea was to write to the sculptor and ask him to come and see me, but finding that he was not entirely recovered from his wound, I went, accompanied by my husband and Nais, to the artist’s studio, which we found in a pleasant little house in the rue de l’Ouest, behind the garden of the Luxembourg, one of the most retired quarters of Paris. We were received in the vestibule by a woman about whom Monsieur de l’Estorade had already said a word to me. It appears that the _laureat_ of Rome did not leave Italy without bringing away with him an agreeable souvenir in the form of a bourgeoise Galatea, half housekeeper, half model; about whom certain indiscreet rumors are current. But let me hasten to say that there was absolutely nothing in her appearance or manner to lead me to credit them. In fact, there was something cold and proud and almost savage about her, which is, they tell me, a strong characteristic of the Transteverine peasant-women. When she announced our names Monsieur Dorlange was standing in a rather picturesque working costume with his back to us, and I noticed that he hastily drew an ample curtain before the statue on which he was engaged. At the moment when he turned round, and before I had time to look at him, imagine my astonishment when Nais ran forward and, with the artlessness of a child, flung her arms about his neck crying out:-- “Are! here is my monsieur who saved me!” What! the monsieur who saved her? Then Monsieur Dorlange must be the famous Unknown?--Yes, my dear friend, I now recognized him. Chance, that cleverest of romance-makers, willed that Monsieur Dorlange and my bore were one. Happily, my husband had launched into the expression of his feelings as a grateful father; I thus had time to recover myself, and before it became my turn to say a word, I had installed upon my face what you are pleased to call my grand l’Estorade air; under which, as you know, I mark twenty-five degrees below zero, and can freeze the words on the lips of any presuming person. As for Monsieur Dorlange, he seemed to me less troubled than surprised by the meeting. Then, as if he thought we kept him too long on the topic of our gratitude, he abruptly changed the subject. “Madame,” he said to me, “since we are, as it seems, more acquainted than we thought, may I dare to gratify my curiosity?”-- I fancied I saw the claw of a cat preparing to play with its mouse, so I answered, coldly:-- “Artists, I am told, are often indiscreet in their curiosity.” I put a well-marked stiffness into my manner which completed the meaning of the words. I could not see that it baffled him. “I hope,” he replied, “that my question is not of that kind. I only desire to ask if you have a sister.” “No, monsieur,” I replied, “I have no sister--none, at least, that I know of,” I added, jestingly.