“Yes, Florian is an idealist,” she said, “There is nothing of the brute in him.”

“And you think Fontenelle a brute?” queried Sylvie, “Yes, I suppose he is; but I have sometimes thought that all men are very much alike,—­except Florian!” She paused, looking rather dubiously, and with a touch of compassion at Angela, “Well!—­you deserve to be happy, child, and I hope you will be!  For myself, I am going to run away from Monsieur le Marquis with as much speed as if I had stolen his watch!”

“It is the best thing you can do,” said Angela with a little sigh of relief, “I am glad you are resolved.”

Comtesse Sylvie rose from her chair and moved about the studio with a pretty air of impatience.

“If his love for me could last,” she said, “I might stay!  I would love him with truth and passion, and I would so influence him that he should become one of the most brilliant leading men of his time.  For he has all the capabilities of genius,—­but they are dormant,—­ and the joys of self-indulgence appeal to him more strongly than high ambition and attainment.  And he could not love any women for more than a week or a month at most,—­in which temperament he exactly resembles the celebrated Miraudin.  Now I do not care to be loved for a week or a month—­I wish to be loved for always,—­for always!” she said with emphasis, “Just as your Florian loves you.”

Angela’s eyes grew soft and pensive.

“Few men are like Florian,” she said.  Again Sylvie looked at her doubtfully, and there was a moment’s silence.  Then Sylvie resumed.

“Will you help me to give a little lesson to Monsieur le Marquis, Angela?”

“Willingly, if I can.  But how?”

“In this way.  It is a little drama!  To-morrow is Saturday and you ‘receive.’  ‘Tout Paris’, artistic Paris, at any rate, flocks to your studio.  Your uncle, the Cardinal Bonpre, is known to be with you, and your visitors will be still more numerous.  I have promised Fontenelle to meet him here.  I am to give him his answer—­”

“To what?” enquired Angela.

“To his proposal.”

“Of marriage?”

“Dear me, no!” And Sylvie smiled, but there was a look of pain in her eyes, “He has an idyllic house buried in the Foret St. Germain, and he wants me to take possession . . . you know the rest!  He is a villain?  Yes—­he is like Miraudin, who has a luxurious flat in Paris and sends each lady of his harem there in turn.  How angry you look!  But, my dear, I am not going to the house in the Foret, and I shall not meet him here.  He will come—­looking charming as usual, and he will wait for me; but I shall not arrive.  All I want you to do for me is to receive him very kindly, talk to him very sweetly, and tell him quite suddenly that I have left Paris.”

“What good will that do?” enquired Angela, “Could you not write it to him?”

“Of course I could write it to him but—­” Here Sylvie paused and turned away her head.  Angela, moved by quick instinct, went to her and put her arm around her waist.