I began again.  Up jumped mademoiselle for the second time, and tripped across the room to a cheval-glass.  “No!” I heard her say to herself, “I have not discomposed my head in kissing my angels.  I may come back and pose for my picture.”

Back she came.  I worked from her for five minutes at the most.  “Stop!” cries mademoiselle, jumping up for the third time; “I must see how this skillful artist is getting on. Grand Dieu! why he has done nothing!”

For the fourth time I began, and for the fourth time the old lady started out of her chair.  “Now I must repose myself,” said mademoiselle, walking lightly from end to end of the room, and humming a French air, by way of taking a rest.

I was at my wit’s end, and the young ladies saw it.  They all surrounded my unmanageable sitter, and appealed to her compassion for me.  “Certainly!” said mademoiselle, expressing astonishment by flinging up both her hands with all the fingers spread out in the air.  “But why apostrophize me thus?  I am here, I am ready, I am at the service of this skillful artist.  Why apostrophize me?”

A fortunate chance question of mine steadied her for some time.  I inquired if I was expected to draw the whole of my sitter’s figure as well as her face.  Mademoiselle replied by a comic scream of indignation.  If I was the brave and gifted man for whom she took me, I ought to be ready to perish rather than leave out an inch of her anywhere.  Dress was her passion, and it would be an outrage on her sentiments if I did not do full justice to everything she had on—­to her robe, to her lace, to her scarf, to her fan, to her rings, her jewels, and, above all, to her bracelets.  I groaned in spirit at the task before me, but made my best bow of acquiescence.  Mademoiselle was not to be satisfied by a mere bow; she desired the pleasure of specially directing my attention, if I would be so amiable as to get up and approach her, to one of her bracelets in particular—­the bracelet with the miniature, on her left wrist.  It had been the gift of the dearest friend she ever had, and the miniature represented that friend’s beloved and beautiful face.  Could I make a tiny, tiny copy of that likeness in my drawing!  Would I only be so obliging as to approach for one little moment, and see if such a thing were possible?

I obeyed unwillingly enough, expecting, from mademoiselle’s expression, to see a commonplace portrait of some unfortunate admirer whom she had treated with unmerited severity in the days of her youth.  To my astonishment, I found that the miniature, which was very beautifully painted, represented a woman’s face—­a young woman with kind, sad eyes, pale, delicate cheeks, light hair, and such a pure, tender, lovely expressions that I thought of Raphael’s Madonnas the moment I looked at her portrait.

The old lady observed the impression which the miniature produced on me, and nodded her head in silence.  “What a beautiful, innocent, pure face!” I said.