I stood admiring and silent, while Mueller told his tale, and Flandrin paused in his work to listen.

“It is horribly unlucky,” said he.  “I had not been able to find a portrait of Romero and, faute de mieux, have been trying for days past to invent the right sort of head for him—­of course, without success.  You never saw such a heap of failures!  But as for that man at the cafe, if Providence had especially created him for my purpose, he could not have answered it better.”

“I believe I am as sorry as you can possibly be,” said Mueller.

“Then you are very sorry indeed,” replied the painter; and he looked even more disappointment than he expressed.

“I’m afraid I can’t do it,” said Mueller, after a moment’s silence; “but if you’ll give me a pencil and a piece of paper, and credit me with the will in default of the deed, I will try to sketch the head from memory.”

“Ah? if you can only do that!  Here is a drawing block—­choose what pencils you prefer—­or here are crayons, if you like them better.”

Mueller took the pencils and block, perched himself on the corner of a table, and began.  Flandrin, breathless with expectation, looked over his shoulder.  Even the model (in the grim character of Egmont’s executioner) laid aside his two-handed sword, and came round for a peep.

“Bravo! that’s just his nose and brow,” said Flandrin, as Mueller’s rapid hand flew over the paper.  “Yes—­the likeness comes with every touch ... and the eyes, so keen and furtive. ...  Nay, that eyelid should be a little more depressed at the corner....  Yes, yes—­just so.  Admirable!  There!—­don’t attempt to work it up.  The least thing might mar the likeness.  My dear fellow, what a service you have rendered me!”

“Quatre-vingt mille diables!” ejaculated the model, his eyes riveted upon the sketch.

Mueller laughed and looked.

“Tiens!  Guichet,” said he, “is that meant for a compliment?”

“Where did you see him?” asked the model, pointing down at the sketch.

“Why?  Do you know him?”

“Where did you see him, I say?” repeated Guichet, impatiently.

He was a rough fellow, and garnished every other sentence with an oath; but he did not mean to be uncivil.

“At the Cafe Procope.”

“When?”

“About an hour ago.  But again, I repeat—­do you know him?”

“Do I know him? Tonnerre de Dieu!”

“Then who and what is he?”

The model stroked his beard; shook his head; declined to answer.

“Bah!” said he, gloomily, “I may have seen him, or I may be mistaken.  ’Tis not my affair.”

“I suspect Guichet knows something against this interesting stranger,” laughed Flandrin.  “Come, Guichet, out with it!  We are among friends.”

But Guichet again looked at the drawing, and again shook his head.

“I’m no judge of pictures, messieurs,” said he.  “I’m only a poor devil of a model.  How can I pretend to know a man from such a griffonage as that?”