"This other has the eyes of heaven, monsieur."
"And as for figure——"
"Chut! monsieur is joking,—the form of a Normandie nurse! Mademoiselle Remy is the sculptor's dream!"
Jean Marot laughed. This unstinted praise of the girl who had fascinated him,—who had robbed him of his rest,—who had without an effort, and unconsciously, taken possession of his soul,—it was incense to him. Truly, Mlle. Fouchette had an artistic eye,—a most excellent judgment. It extracted the sting——
"Yes," continued Mlle. Fouchette, looking through him as if he were so much glass, "a great artist said to me the other day——"
"Pardon! but, mademoiselle, does your new beauty,—the 'sculptor's dream,' you know,—does she do the studios of the quarter?"
"No! Why should she?"
He was silent. Would she have another drink?
"Thanks! Un ballon, garçon," repeated Mlle. Fouchette.
They looked at the crowd in silence for a while.