His anxious attention, scrutinizing her face which he loved, recalled a difference, a physiognomy he had never before discerned.
He rose to go; then, suddenly yielding to the invincible longing to know which had been gnawing at him since yesterday, he said: "By the way, I fancy I remember that you used to have, in Paris, a little portrait of Marechal, in the drawing-room." She hesitated for a second or two, or at least he fancied she hesitated; then she said: "To be sure." "What has become of the portrait ?" She might have replied more readily: "That portrait--stay; I don't exactly know--perhaps it is in my desk." "It would be kind of you to find it." "Yes, I will look for it.

What do you want it for ?" "Oh, it is not for myself.

I thought it would be a natural thing to give it to Jean, and that he would be pleased to have it." "Yes, you are right; that is a good idea.

I will look for it, as soon as I am up." And he went out.
It was a blue day without a breath of wind.

The folks in the streets seemed in good spirits, the merchants going to business, the clerks going to their office, the girls going to their shop.