“Why, Hippolyte, what ails you?” asked Francois Souchet, the young sculptor who had just won the first prize, and was soon to set out for Italy. “I am most unhappy,” replied Hippolyte gravely. “Nothing but a love affair can cause you grief. Money, glory, respect--you lack nothing.” Insensibly the painter was led into confidences, and confessed his love. The moment he mentioned the Rue de Suresnes, and a young girl living on the fourth floor, “Stop, stop,” cried Souchet lightly. “A little girl I see every morning at the Church of the Assumption, and with whom I have a flirtation. But, my dear fellow, we all know her. The mother is a Baroness. Do you really believe in a Baroness living up four flights of stairs? Brrr! Why, you are a relic of the golden age! We see the old mother here, in this avenue, every day; why, her face, her appearance, tell everything. What, have you not known her for what she is by the way she holds her bag?” The two friends walked up and down for some time, and several young men who knew Souchet or Schinner joined them. The painter’s adventure, which the sculptor regarded as unimportant, was repeated by him. “So he, too, has seen that young lady!” said Souchet. And then there were comments, laughter, innocent mockery, full of the liveliness familiar to artists, but which pained Hippolyte frightfully. A certain native reticence made him uncomfortable as he saw his heart’s secret so carelessly handled, his passion rent, torn to tatters, a young and unknown girl, whose life seemed to be so modest, the victim of condemnation, right or wrong, but pronounced with such reckless indifference. He pretended to be moved by a spirit of contradiction, asking each for proofs of his assertions, and their jests began again. “But, my dear boy, have you seen the Baroness’ shawl?” asked Souchet. “Have you ever followed the girl when she patters off to church in the morning?” said Joseph Bridau, a young dauber in Gros’ studio. “Oh, the mother has among other virtues a certain gray gown, which I regard as typical,” said Bixiou, the caricaturist. “Listen, Hippolyte,” the sculptor went on. “Come here at about four o’clock, and just study the walk of both mother and daughter. If after that you still have doubts! well, no one can ever make anything of you; you would be capable of marrying your porter’s daughter.”