The happiest, the most unexpected chance had led the painter Falero and me to where she was. One lovely afternoon last spring we were walking on the seashore. We had been through one of the groves of olive-trees, with their sad-looking leaves, which are so frequent between Nice and Monaco, and without being aware of it had entered some private grounds which were unenclosed on the side towards the beach. A picturesque, winding path led up the hill. We had just passed an orange-grove whose golden apples recalled the garden of the Hesperides; the air was fragrant, the sky a deep blue, and we were discoursing upon a parallel between art and science, when my companion suddenly stopped, as if by an irresistible fascination, making me a sign to be silent and to look. Behind the clumps of cactus and fig-trees, a few feet in front of us, was a sumptuous bathroom, with its western window open, letting us see the young girl standing not far from a marble basin into which a jet of water fell with a gentle murmur, and before a large mirror which reflected her image from head to foot. Probably the noise of the falling water had prevented her hearing our footsteps. We stood mute and motionless behind the cactus, discreetly, or indiscreetly, watching her. She was lovely, and apparently unaware of her own beauty. Her feet were on a tiger-skin; she was in no haste. Finding that her hair was still too damp, she let it fall about her again, turned in our direction, and picked up a rose from the table near the window; then going back to the long mirror, she resumed her hair-dressing, finished it leisurely, put the little rose between two coils, and turning with her back to the sun, stooped, probably to pick up her first piece of clothing. But she suddenly sprang back with a piercing cry, hid her face in her hands, and hastily retreated to a shaded corner. We have always thought since that some movement of our heads must have betrayed our presence, or that by some trick of the mirror she had seen us. Whatever it was, we thought it prudent to retrace our steps, and went down to the sea again by the same path. * * * * * "Ah," said my companion, "I assure you that among all my models I have never seen any more perfect, even for my picture of the 'Double Stars' and of 'Celia.' What do you think about it yourself? Did not that apparition come just in time to prove that I am right? You need waste no eloquence upon the delights of science,--acknowledge that art also has its charms. Do not the stars of Earth compare favorably with the beauties of the sky? Do you not admire the graceful beauty of that form as I do? What exquisite tints, what flesh!"