“Beyond expression, Mademoiselle; he is so openhearted, so true a friend, he has the soul of the artist and the seer. I am sure you would rate him very highly if you knew him.”
“But I do know him, at least by his works. Where am I to be seen now, by the way? What has become of my portrait?”
“It’s at Lampron’s house, in his mother’s room, where Monsieur Charnot can go and see it if he likes.”
“My father does not know of its existence,” she said, with a glance at the slumbering man of learning.
“Has he not seen it?”
“No, he would have made so much ado about nothing. So Monsieur Lampron has kept the sketch? I thought it had been sold long ago.”
“Sold! you did not think he would sell it!”
“Why not? Every artist has the right to sell his works.”
“Not work of that kind.”
“Just as much as any other kind.”