called 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 Maréchal, 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
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