“Don’t trouble yourself;” and with these words M. de Breulh ascended the staircase that led to the painter’s studio and knocked on the door.  As he did so, he heard a quick, light step upon the stairs, and a young and very dark man, dressed in a weaver’s blouse and carrying a tin pail which he had evidently just filled with water from the cistern, came up.

“Are you M. Andre?” asked De Breulh.

“That is my name, sir.”

“I wish to say a few words to you.”

“Pray come in,” replied the young artist, opening the door of his studio and ushering his visitor in.  Andre’s voice and expression had made a favorable impression upon his visitor; but he was, in spite of his having thrown aside nearly all foolish prejudices, a little startled at his costume.  He did not, however, allow his surprise to be visible.

“I ought to apologize for receiving you like this,” remarked Andre quickly, “but a poor man must wait upon himself.”  As he spoke, he threw off his blouse and set down the pail in a corner of the room.

“I rather should offer my excuse for my intrusion,” returned M. de Breulh.  “I came here by the advice of one of my friends;” he stopped for an instant, endeavoring to think of a name.

“By Prince Crescensi, perhaps,” suggested Andre.

“Yes, yes,” continued M. de Breulh, eagerly snatching at the rope the artist held out to him.  “The Prince sings your praises everywhere, and speaks of your talents with the utmost enthusiasm.  I am, on his recommendation, desirous of commissioning you to paint a picture for me, and I can assure you that in my gallery it will have no need to be ashamed of its companions.”

Andre bowed, coloring deeply at the compliment.

“I am obliged to you,” said he, “and I trust that you will not be disappointed in taking the Prince’s opinion of my talent.”

“Why should I be so?”

“Because, for the last four months I have been so busy that I have really nothing to show you.”

“That is of no importance.  I have every confidence in you.”

“Then,” returned Andre, “all that we have to do is to choose a subject.”

Andre’s manner had by this time so captivated De Breulh that he muttered to himself, “I really ought to hate this fellow, but on my word I like him better than any one I have met for a long time.”

Andre had by this time placed a large portfolio on the table.  “Here,” said he, “are some twenty or thirty sketches; if any of them took your fancy, you could make your choice.”

“Let me see them,” returned De Breulh politely, for having made an estimate of the young man’s character, he now wished to see what his artistic talents were like.  With this object in view he examined all the sketches in the portfolio minutely, and then turned to those on the walls.  Andre said nothing, but he somehow felt that this visit would prove the turning-point of his misfortunes.