“Come in,” cried he as he rose.

The door was thrown open, and the young artist started as he recognized in his early visitor the father of Sabine.  It was after a sleepless night that the Count had decided to take the present step.  He was terribly agitated, but had had time to prepare himself for this all-important interview.

“You will, I trust, pardon me, sir,” said he, “for making such an early call upon you, but I thought that I should be sure to find you at this hour, and much wanted to see you.”

Andre bowed.

In the space of one brief instant a thousand suppositions, each one more unlikely than the other, coursed through his brain.  Why had the Count called?  Who could have given him his address?  And was the visit friendly or hostile?

“I am a great admirer of paintings,” began the Count, “and one of my friends upon whose taste I can rely has spoken to me in the warmest terms of your talent.  This I trust will explain the liberty I have taken.  Curiosity drove me to——­”

He paused for a moment, and then added,—­

“My name is the Marquis de Bevron.”

The concealment of the Count’s real name showed Andre that the visit was not entirely a friendly one, and Andre replied,—­

“I am only too pleased to receive your visit.  Unfortunately just now I have nothing ready, only a few rough sketches in short.  Would you like to see them?”

The Count replied eagerly in the affirmative.  He was terribly embarrassed under his fictitious name, and shrank before the honest, open gaze of the young artist, and his mental disturbance was completed by seeing in one corner of the room the picture covered with a green cloth, which Tantaine had alluded to.  It was evident that the old villain had told the truth, and that his daughter’s portrait was concealed behind this wrapper.  She had evidently been here—­had spent hours here, and whose fault was it?  She had but listened to the voice of her heart, and had sought that affection abroad which she was unable to obtain at home.  As the Count gazed upon the young man before him, he was forced to admit that Mademoiselle Sabine had not fixed her affections on an unworthy object, for at the very first glance he had been struck with the manly beauty of the young artist, and the clear intelligence of his face.

“Ah,” thought Andre, “you come to me under a name that is not your own, and I will respect your wish to remain unknown, but I will take advantage of it by letting you know things which I should not dare say to your face.”

Great as was Andre’s preoccupation, he could not fail to notice that his visitor’s eyes sought the veiled picture with strange persistency.  While M. de Mussidan was looking at the various sketches on the walls, Andre had time to recover all his self-command.

“Let me congratulate you, sir,” remarked the Count, as he returned to the spot where the painter was standing.  “My friend’s admiration was well founded.  I am sorry, however, that you have nothing finished to show me.  You say that you have nothing, I believe?”