"That youngster pokes himself everywhere," said the Baroness de Meinhold tapping him on the cheeks. He was so slightly built that the ladies did not think him more than fourteen. They amused themselves by intoxicating him with the illustrious Worms's Madeira, whereupon he said some astounding things which made them laugh till they cried. However it was the Marchioness d'Espanet who hit upon the right remark for the circumstance. As Maxime was discovered one day, in a corner of the divan, behind her back-- "That boy ought to have been a girl," she murmured, seeing him so rosy and blushing, so penetrated with the delight he had experienced at being close to her. Then when the great Worms finally received Renée, Maxime followed her into the study. He had ventured to speak two or three times whilst the master became absorbed in contemplating his customer, just like Leonardo da Vinci in presence of the Joconde, according to the pontiffs of art. The master had deigned to smile at the appropriateness of Maxime's remarks; he made Renée stand upright before a mirror, rising from the parquetry to the ceiling, and he pondered with a contraction of the eyebrows, whilst the young woman, affected, caught her breath so as not to stir. And after a few minutes the master, as if seized and shaken by inspiration, roughly and jerkily described the work of art he had just conceived, exclaiming in curt phrases: "Montespan dress in ash tinted silk--the train describing a rounded skirt in front--large bow of grey satin catching it up on the hips--finally an apron composed of puffs of pearl grey tulle, the puffs separated by bands of grey satin." He again reflected, seemed to dive to the very depths of his genius, and with the triumphant grimace of a python seated upon the tripod he concluded: "In the hair, upon this smiling head, we will place the dreamy butterfly of Psyche with wings of changeful blue." But on other occasions, inspiration was sluggish. The illustrious Worms summoned it in vain and concentrated his faculties to no purpose. He tortured his eyebrows, turned livid, took his poor head, which he wagged in despair, between his hands, and conquered, throwing himself into an arm-chair: "No," he would mutter in a sorrowful voice, "no, not to-day--it isn't possible--These ladies presume too much. The source is dried up." And he would turn Renée out of doors, repeating: "Impossible, impossible, dear madame, you must call again another day. I'm not in the vein to deal with your style this morning."