It is true that sometimes, when he fancied he might have gone too far, Marien would grow sarcastic, or stay silent for a time.  But this change of behavior produced on Jacqueline only the same effect that the caprices of a coquette produce upon a very young admirer.  She grew anxious, she wanted to find out the reason, and finally found some explanation or excuse for him that coincided with her fancies.

The thing that reassured her in such cases was her picture.  If she could seem to him as beautiful as he had made her look on canvas she was sure that he must love her.

“Is this really I?  Are you sure?” she said to Marien with a laugh of delight.  “It seems to me that you have made me too handsome.”

“I have hardly done you justice,” he replied.  “It is not my fault if you are more beautiful than seems natural, like the beauties in the keepsakes.  By the way, I hold those English things in horror.  What do you say of them?”

Then Jacqueline undertook to defend the keepsake beauties with animation, declaring that no one but a hopelessly realistic painter would refuse to do justice to those charming monstrosities.

“Good heavens!” thought Marien, “if she is adding a quick wit to her other charms—­that will put the finishing stroke to me.”

When the portrait was sufficiently advanced, M. de Nailles came to the studio to judge of the likeness.  He was delighted:  “Only, my friend, I think,” he cried to Marien, endeavoring to soften his one objection to the picture, “that you have given her a look—­how can I put it?—­an expression very charming no doubt, but which is not that of a child of her age.  You know what I mean.  It is something tender—­intense—­profound, too feminine.  It may come to her some day, perhaps—­but hitherto Jacqueline’s expression has been generally that of a merry, mischievous child.”

“Oh, papa!” cried the young girl, stung by the insult.

“You may possibly be right,” Marien hastened to reply, “it was probably the fatigue of posing that gave her that expression.”

“Oh!” repeated Jacqueline, more shocked than ever.

“I can alter it,” said the painter, much amused by her extreme despair.  But Marien thought that Jacqueline had not in the least that precocious air which her father attributed to her, when standing before him she gave herself up to thoughts the current of which he followed easily, watching on her candid face its changes of expression.  How could he have painted her other than she appeared to him?  Was what he saw an apparition—­or was it a work of magic?

Several times during the sittings M. de Nailles made his appearance in the studio, and after greatly praising the work, persisted in his objection that it made Jacqueline too old.  But since the painter saw her thus they must accept his judgment.  It was no doubt an effect of the grown-up costume that she had had a fancy to put on.

“After all,” he said to Jacqueline, “it is of not much consequence; you will grow up to it some of these days.  And I pay you my compliments in advance on your appearance in the future.”