But
the news that the pictures had disappeared from the walls since her
visit revealed to Augustine a delicacy of sentiment which a woman can
always appreciate, even by instinct.
On the morning when, on his way home from a ball, Theodore de
Sommervieux--for this was the name which fame had stamped on
Augustine's heart--had been squirted on by the apprentices while
awaiting the appearance of his artless little friend, who certainly
did not know that he was there, the lovers had seen each other for the
fourth time only since their meeting at the Salon. The difficulties
which the rule of the house placed in the way of the painter's ardent
nature gave added violence to his passion for Augustine.
How could he get near to a young girl seated in a counting-house
between two such women as Mademoiselle Virginie and Madame Guillaume?
How could he correspond with her when her mother never left her side?
Ingenious, as lovers are, to imagine woes, Theodore saw a rival in one
of the assistants, to whose interests he supposed the others to be
devoted. If he should evade these sons of Argus, he would yet be
wrecked under the stern eye of the old draper or of Madame Guillaume.
The very vehemence of his passion hindered the young painter from
hitting on the ingenious expedients which, in prisoners and in lovers,
seem to be the last effort of intelligence spurred by a wild craving
for liberty, or by the fire of love. Theodore wandered about the
neighborhood with the restlessness of a madman, as though movement
might inspire him with some device.
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