Jacqueline, having put on her gray jacket with as much contempt for it as Cinderella may have felt for her rags after her successes at the ball, departed with the delightful sensation of having made a bold first step, and being eager to make another.

Thus it was with all her sittings, though some left her anxious and unhappy, as for instance when Marien, absorbed in his work, had not paused, except to say, “Turn your head a little—­you are losing the pose.”  Or else, “Now you may rest for today.”

On such occasions she would watch him anxiously as he painted swiftly, his brush making great splashes on the canvas, his dark features wearing a scowl, his chin on his breast, a deep frown upon his forehead, on which the hair grew low.  It was evident that at such times he had no thought of pleasing her.  Little did she suspect that he was saying to himself:  “Fool that I am!—­A man of my age to take pleasure in seeing that little head filled with follies and fancies of which I am the object.  But can one—­let one be ever so old—­always act—­or think reasonably?  You are mad, Marien!  A child of fourteen!  Bah!—­they make her out to be fourteen—­but she is fifteen—­and was not that the age of Juliet?  But, you old graybeard, you are not Romeo!—­’Ma foi’!  I am in a pretty scrape.  It ought to teach me not to play with fire at my age.”

Those words “at my age” were the refrain to all the reflections of Hubert Marien.  He had seen enough in his relations with women to have no doubt about Jacqueline’s feelings, of which indeed he had watched the rise and progress from the time she had first begun to conceive a passion for him, with a mixture of amusement and conceit.  The most cautious of men are not insensible to flattery, whatever form it may take.  To be fallen in love with by a child was no doubt absurd—­a thing to be laughed at—­but Jacqueline seemed no longer a child, since for him she had uncovered her young shoulders and arranged her dark hair on her head with the effect of a queenly diadem.  Not only had her dawning loveliness been revealed to him alone, but to him it seemed that he had helped to make her lovely.  The innocent tenderness she felt for him had accomplished this miracle.  Why should he refuse to inhale an incense so pure, so genuine?  How could he help being sensible to its fragrance?  Would it not be in his power to put an end to the whole affair whenever he pleased?  But till then might he not bask in it, as one does in a warm ray of spring sunshine?  He put aside, therefore, all scruples.  And when he did this Jacqueline with rapture saw the painter’s face, no longer with its scowl, but softened by some secret influence, the lines smoothed from his brow, while the beautiful smile which had fascinated so many women passed like a ray of light over his expressive mobile features; then she would once more fancy that he was making love to her, and indeed he said many things, which, without rousing in himself any scruples of conscience, or alarming the propriety of Fraulein Schult, were well calculated to delude a girl who had had no experience, and who was charmed by the illusions of a love-affair, as she might have been by a fairy-story.