“First I must trouble you to stand out there near the tree.”

“Me? what for?”

“Because art loves contrasts.  The tree is a picture of age and gradual decay; by its side then I must place a personification of youth and growing loveliness.”

She did not answer, but made a sort of defiant pirouette, and went where she was bid, and stood there with her back to the artist.  “That will never do,” said he; “you really must be so good as to turn round.”

“Oh, very well.”  And when she came round, behold her color had risen mightily.  Flattery is sweet.

This child of nature was delighted, and ashamed it should be seen that she was.

And so he drew her, and kept looking off the paper at her, and had a right in his character of artist to look her full in the face; and he did so with long lingering glances.  To be sure, they all began severe and businesslike with half-closed eyes, and the peculiar hostile expression art puts on; but then they always ended open-eyed, and so full and tender, that she, poor girl, who was all real gold, though sham brass, blushed and blushed, and did not know which way to look not to be scorched up by his eye like a tender flower, or blandly absorbed like the pearly dew.  Ah, happy hour! ah, happy days of youth and innocence and first love!

Trouble loves to intrude on these halcyon days.

The usually quiet Josephine came flying from the house, pale and agitated, and clung despairingly to Rose, and then fell to sobbing and lamenting piteously.

I shall take leave to relate in my own words what had just occurred to agitate her so.  When she entered her mother’s room, she found the baroness and Perrin the notary seated watching for her.  She sat down after the usual civilities, and Perrin entered upon the subject that had brought him.

He began by confessing to them that he had not overcome the refractory creditor without much trouble; and that he had since learned there was another, a larger creditor, likely to press for payment or for sale of the estate.  The baroness was greatly troubled by this communication:  the notary remained cool as a cucumber, and keenly observant.  After a pause he went on to say all this had caused him grave reflections.  “It seems,” said he with cool candor, “a sad pity the estate should pass from a family that has held it since the days of Charlemagne.”

“Now God forbid!” cried the baroness, lifting her eyes and her quivering hands to heaven.

The notary held the republican creed in all its branches.  “Providence, madame, does not interfere—­in matters of business,” said he.  “Nothing but money can save the estate.  Let us then be practical.  Has any means occurred to you of raising money to pay off these incumbrances?”

“No.  What means can there be?  The estate is mortgaged to its full value:  so they say, at least.”

“And they say true,” put in the notary quickly.  “But do not distress yourself, madame:  confide in me.”