“Nothing, Marquis.”

“Not even that picture whose frame I can distinguish through the serge curtain that covers it?”

Andre blushed, though he had been expecting the question from the commencement.

“Excuse me,” answered he; “that picture is certainly finished, but it is not on view.”

The Count was now sure that Tantaine’s statement was correct.

“I suppose that it is some woman’s portrait,” remarked the false Marquis.

“You are quite correct.”

Both men were much agitated at this moment, and avoided meeting each other’s eyes.

The Count, however, had made up his mind that he would go on to the end.

“Ah, you are in love, I see!” remarked he with a forced laugh.  “All great artists have depicted the charms of their mistresses on canvas.”

“Stop,” cried Andre with an angry glance in his eyes.  “The picture you refer to is the portrait of the purest and most innocent girl in the world.  I shall love her all my life; but, if possible, my respect for her is greater than my love.  I should consider myself a most degraded wretch, had I ever whispered in her ear a word that her mother might not have listened to.”

A feeling of the most instantaneous relief thrilled through M. de Mussidan’s heart.

“You will pardon me,” suggested he blandly, “but when one sees a portrait in a studio, the inference is that a sitting or two has taken place?”

“You are right.  She came here secretly, and without the knowledge of her family, at the risk of her honor and reputation, thus affording me the strongest proof of her love.  It was cruel of me,” continued the young artist, “to accept this proof of her entire devotion, and yet not only did I accept it, but I pleaded for it on my bended knee, for how else was I to hear the music of her voice, or gladden my eyes with her beauty?  We love each other, but a gulf wider than the stormy sea divides us.  She is an heiress, come of a proud and haughty line of nobles, while I——­”

Andre paused, waiting for some words wither of encouragement or censure; but the Count remained silent, and the young man continued,—­

“Do you know who I am?  A poor foundling, placed in the Hospital of Vendome, the illicit offspring of some poor betrayed girl.  I started in the world with twenty francs in my pocket, and found my way to Paris; since then I have earned my bread by my daily work.  You only see here the more brilliant side of my life; for an artist here—­I am a common work-man elsewhere.”

If M. de Mussidan remained silent, it was from extreme admiration of the noble character, which was so unexpectedly revealed to him, and he was endeavoring to conceal it.

“She knows all this,” pursued Andre, “and yet she loves me.  It was here, in this very room, that she vowed that she could never be the wife of another.  Not a month ago, a gentleman, well born, wealthy, and fascinating, with every characteristic that a woman could love, was a suitor for her hand.  She went boldly to him, told him the story of our love, and, like a noble-hearted gentleman, he withdrew at once, and to-day is my best and kindest friend.  Now, Marquis, would you like to see this young girl’s picture?”