are truly hideous; but my aunt will not have them removed out of sight.  Considering her deep attachment to Aniela, I was sure she would be delighted with the idea of adding her picture to the collection.  As far as she is concerned I consider the thing done; but now came the question whom to intrust with the execution of the portrait.  I thought it would be impossible to induce the ladies to take Paris on their way; there I should have the choice between the accuracy and objectivism of Bonnat, the bold breadth of Carolus Duran, and the inimitable sweetness of Chaplin.  Shutting my eyes, I imagined how each of them would acquit himself of the task, and I was pleased with the fancy.  But I saw it was impracticable; I foresaw that my aunt would insist upon a Polish painter.  I should have no objection to that, for I remembered seeing at the Warsaw and Cracow exhibition portraits as excellent as from the brush of any foreign painter.  I was only afraid of the delay.  As regards fancies, and also in many other things, there is something eminently feminine in my composition.  When I plan a thing I want to get it done at once.  As we were in Germany, not very far from Munich and Vienna, I began to choose among the German painters.  I fixed upon two names:  Lembach and Angeli.  I had seen some fine portraits by Lembach, but only men’s; besides, I did not like his self-assurance and sketchiness, which, as I am fond of French painting, I can endure only from a Frenchman.  Angeli’s faces did not altogether satisfy me, but I had to admit his delicacy of touch; and that is just the thing wanted for Aniela’s face.  Besides, in order to get Lembach we should have to go out of our way, and Angeli is on the way,—­a circumstance one is ashamed to confess, not wanting to be regarded as a Philistine.  But in this case I wanted to save time.  “The dead ride quick,” as the poet says; but lovers ride quicker still.  Besides I should have chosen Angeli in any case, and finally decided that he should paint Aniela’s portrait.  As a rule, I do not approve of portraits in ball dress, but I resolved to have Aniela in a white dress with violets.  I want to have the delusion in looking at her that she is the Aniela of the never-to-be-forgotten times.  I do not want anything to remind me that she is Pani Kromitzka.  And besides, the dress is dear to me as a memory.

I thought the night would never end, so impatient was I to speak about it to my aunt.  I changed my plan though, for if my aunt had the portrait painted, she would insist upon a Polish painter.  I decided instead to offer Aniela’s likeness to my aunt on her name’s-day, which is towards the end of October.  Put in this way, Aniela cannot refuse.  Of course I shall have a copy for myself.

I scarcely slept at all, but look upon it as a satisfactory night, as all the hours were occupied with these plans.  I dozed a little towards five, but was up and dressed at the stroke of eight.  I went to Straubinger’s and sent a telegram to the Vienna Kuenstlerhaus inquiring whether Angeli was at home, then returned to the villa and found the ladies at the breakfast-table.  I opened fire at once.  “Aniela,” I said, “I have come to confess my guilt in regard to you.  Last night instead of sleeping I have disposed of your person, and it now remains to be seen whether you will consent.”