Hippolyte, finding nothing to say, and feeling almost
timid, took down the picture, examined it gravely, carrying it to
the light of the window, and then went away, without saying a
word to Mademoiselle Leseigneur but, "I will return it soon."
During this brief moment they both went through one of those
storms of agitation of which the effects in the soul may be
compared to those of a stone flung into a deep lake. The most
delightful waves of thought rise and follow each other,
indescribable, repeated, and aimless, tossing the heart like the
circular ripples, which for a long time fret the waters, starting
from the point where the stone fell.
Hippolyte returned to the studio bearing the portrait. His easel
was ready with a fresh canvas, and his palette set, his brushes
cleaned, the spot and the light carefully chosen. And till the
dinner hour he worked at the painting with the ardor artists
throw into their whims. He went again that evening to the Baronne
de Rouville's, and remained from nine till eleven. Excepting the
different topics of conversation, this evening was exactly like
the last. The two old men arrived at the same hour, the same game
of piquet was played, the same speeches made by the players, the
sum lost by Adelaide's friend was not less considerable than on
the previous evening; only Hippolyte, a little bolder, ventured
to chat with the young girl.
A week passed thus, and in the course of it the painter's
feelings and Adelaide's underwent the slow and delightful
transformations which bring two souls to a perfect understanding.
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