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 and the leaves have fallen—St. Germain depends on its leaves; when they are gone, it is bare and ugly, its beauty is like that of a woman. As a rule a woman has little that is beautiful beneath her looks; when the summer goes St. Germain has nothing beneath its leaves."

"Youth and summer are not everything," she said almost piteously.

"Ah, no," he answered, "sometimes wisdom and knowledge come with age, and in winter there is time for reflection." Another silence. Carbouche went on with the portrait. Keenly and quickly he looked at her; surely and unhesitatingly his brush went to the canvas. The sitting was nearly at an end.

"Monsieur," she said softly, "I think you are very hard."

"Perhaps," and he shrugged his shoulders; "but one cannot help one's nature, it is one's misfortune or the reverse."

"I think," she went on reflectively, "it is a little inevitable—it is one of the qualities of genius, so many precious things are hard; the diamond is hardest of all," she added plaintively.

"Madame is most ingenious, she would make one feel flattered even at the possession of one's defects," but there was no yielding in his voice. She was silent for a few minutes, he lifted his brush and pulled his thumb out of the palette. The sitting was over; he looked at her curiously and then at his work. The carriage drove up in front of the house. With almost a gasp she asked—

"Do you never forgive?" He looked at her straightly.

"Forgive? Oh yes, we all do that sometimes."

"And does forgiveness make no difference?" she asked.

"I should perhaps forgive a burglar who broke in and stole," he answered; "but afterwards I should bar the door, knowing the manner of person who was possibly without."

"I want to speak of the past," she said, and put out her hands, then drew them back quickly.

"But this is my studio in Paris, madame. I have the honour to be painting your portrait, and, if you will have the goodness, we will confine our conversation to the things that concern it. Ah, here is your maid and your cloak; I compliment you on its colour, it would be good to paint. On Thursday, then, at eleven, and with two more sittings, if we are diligent, the portrait will be finished. I wish Madame la Comtesse good day."

was sitting for the last time. The portrait was nearly finished. As a painting it was perfect, as a work of art—was it not Carbouche's? But it was as accurate and as merciless as a looking-glass. The face of the woman on the canvas was the face of the woman who sat, nothing was softened. The hair had that harshness dye gives it; the colour on the cheeks was the tint of that which had replaced the natural one on the original. Every line that time had set on her was reproduced, every year that she had lived could be counted; nay, it seemed as if every day and night of them had been in the painter's mind while he worked. She was in despair. That to go forth as her portrait painted by the immortal Carbouche! That artificial, made-up-looking face of who shall say how many years and forty to be known to the world as hers; it would be a shame and reproach even to her descendants! Once or twice she tried to remonstrate, but words had no effect on him; he was amenable to no hints. Nothing deceived him, no half turning from the light availed, no wile for a single second served its purpose. His eye as it fell upon her seemed to see her through and through, till her cheeks burned and her throat trembled; and his brush unerringly went to the canvas, and without pity or scruple set down what he had seen.

"Will it be finished to-day?" she asked chokingly.

"It is nearly finished now, madame."

"And is that colour really mine?"

He looked up at her in surprise. "But certainly, madame."

"You have put in all my wrinkles," she said gently.

"I regret, but cannot help them. The years do not like to be forgotten, they set a mark on us as they go by; and it was madame's portrait that I was asked to paint."

"You might have left out a few," she said; "a woman has her vanities."

"I might have left out one eye, madame, but then it would not have been a portrait."

"It makes me sad to see them," she said, "they remind me—they are like the beads