CHAPTER XIV. TOO LATE!
It had been more than three months since Maria and Maurice had met again. One day the young man went to the Louvre to see his favorite pictures of the painters of the Eighteenth Century. His attention was attracted by the beautiful hair of a young artist dressed in black, who was copying one of Rosalba’s portraits. It was our pretty pastel artist whose wonderful locks disturbed all the daubers in the museum, and which made colorists out of Signol’s pupils themselves. Maurice approached the copyist, and then both exclaimed at once:
“Mademoiselle Maria!”
“Monsieur Maurice!”
She had recognized him so quickly and with such a charming smile, she had not, then, forgotten him? When he used to visit Pere Gerard he had noticed that she was not displeased with him; but after such a long time, at first sight, to obtain such a greeting, such a delighted exclamation—it was flattering!
The young man standing by her easel, with his hat off, so graceful and elegant in his well-cut garments, began to talk with her. He spoke first, in becoming and proper terms, of her father’s death; inquired for her mother and sister, congratulated himself upon having been recognized thus, and then yielding to his bold custom, he added:
“As to myself, I hesitated at first. You have grown still more beautiful in two years.”
As she blushed, he continued, in a joking way, which excused his audacity:
“Amedee told me that you had become delicious, but now I hardly dare ask him for news of you. Ever since you have lived at Montmartre—and I know that he sees you every Sunday—he has never offered to take me with him to pay my respects. Upon my word of honor, Mademoiselle Maria, I believe that he is in love with you and as jealous as a Turk.”
She protested against it, confused but still smiling.