"Well, there are the studios," suggested Madeleine.
"The—the studios?"
"Yes,—the painters, you know; only models are a drug in the market here——"
"Models?"
"Yes; and, then, unless one has the figure——" she glanced at Fouchette doubtfully. "I'm getting too stout for anything but Roman mothers, Breton peasants, etc. You're too thin even for an angel or ballet dancer."
"I'm sure I'd rather be a danseuse than an angel," said Fouchette,—"that is, if I've got any choice in the matter."
"But one hasn't. You've got to pose in whatever character they want. Did you ever pose?"
"As a painter's model? Never."
Having ensconced themselves in a popular café restaurant on Boulevard St. Michel, the pair ordered an appetizing déjeuner, and Madeleine proceeded to enlighten Fouchette on the subject of the profession,—the character and peculiarities of various artists, their exactions of models, the recompense for holding a certain pose for a given time, the difficulty and art of resuming exactly the same pose, the studios for classes in the nude, the students generally and their pranks and games,—especially upon this latter branch of the business.
Mlle. Fouchette listened to all this with breathless interest, as may be imagined. For it was the opening up of a new world to her. The vivid description of the dancing and fun at the Bal Bullier filled her with delight and enthusiasm. She mentally vowed Madeleine as charming and condescending as ever. The girl had volunteered, good-naturedly, to make the rounds of the studios with her and get her "on the list." When Madeleine offered to engineer Fouchette's début at the Bullier the latter cheerfully paid for the repast the other had rather lavishly ordered.