The Duke led Honoria to a sofa.  But for his arm she would again have fallen.  Dalton had recovered his courage and natural haughtiness.  The tone of his voice, rich, tender, and delicately expressive, did not change.

“Honoria, you sent for me; and the Duke wishes to see the pictures.  The air of the gallery will relieve your faintness.”

He offered his arm, which she, rising mechanically, accepted.  A deep blush crimsoned her features, at the allusion to her weakness.  Several of the guests moved after us, as we passed into the gallery.  The Duke’s shadow, Reve de Noir, following last, closed the ivory doors.  We passed through the gallery,—­where pyramids of sunny fruits, in baskets of fine porcelain, stood relieved by gold and silver services for wine and coffee, disposed on the tables,—­and thence entered another and smaller room, devoid of ornament, but the crimson tapestried walls were covered with works or copies of the great masters of Italy.

Opposite the entrance there was a picture of a woman seated on a throne, behind which stood a demon whispering in her ear and pointing to a handsome youth in the circle of the courtiers.  The design and color were in the style of Correggio.  Denslow stood close behind me.  In advance were Honoria, Dalton, and the Duke, whose conversation was addressed alternately to her and Dalton.  The lights of the gallery burst forth in their full refulgence as we approached the picture.

The glorious harmony of its colors,—­the force of the shadows, which seemed to be converging in the rays of a single unseen source of light,—­ the unity of sentiment, which drew all the groups together, in the idea;—­ I had seen all this before, but with the eyes of supercilious criticism.  Now the picture smote us with awe.

“I have the original of this excellent work,” said the Duke, “in my house at A——­, but your copy is nearly as good.”

The remark, intended for Honoria, reached the pride of her companion, who blandly replied,—­

“Your Highness’s exquisite judgment is for once at fault.  The piece is original.  It was purchased from a well-known collection in Italy, where there are none others of the school.”

Honoria was gazing upon the picture, as I was, in silent astonishment.

“If this,” said she, “is a copy, what must have been the genuine work?  Did you never before notice the likeness between the queen, in that picture, and myself?” she asked, addressing Dalton.

The remark excited general attention.  Every one murmured, “The likeness is perfect.”

“And the demon behind the queen,” said Denslow, insipidly, “resembles your Highness’s valet.”

There was another exclamation.  No sooner was it observed, than the likeness to Reve de Noir seemed to be even more perfect.

The Duke made a sign.

Reve de Noir placed himself near the canvas.  His profile was the counterpart of that in the painting.  He seemed to have stepped out of it.