“Get down here,” said Lecoq, “and mind and don’t hurt your arm.”

Andre obeyed mechanically.

“And now,” went on Lecoq, “listen to me.  The Count and Countess de Mussidan expect you to breakfast and here is the note they handed to me for you.  Come back to your studio by four o’clock, and I will then introduce you to your father; but till then, remember, absolute silence.”

Andre was completely bewildered with his unexpected happiness.  He walked instinctively to the Hotel de Mussidan and rang the bell.  The intense civility of the footmen removed any misgivings that he might have left, and, as he entered the dining-room, he darted back, for face to face with him was the portrait of Sabine which he had himself painted.  At that moment the Count came forward to meet him with extended hands.

“Diana,” said he to his wife, “this is our daughter’s future husband.”  He then took Sabine’s hand, which he laid in Andre’s.

The young artist hardly dared raise his eyes to Sabine’s face; when he did so, his heart grew very sad, for the poor girl was but a shadow of her former self.

“You have suffered terribly,” said he tenderly.

“Yes,” answered she, “and I should have died had it lasted much longer.”

Andre had the greatest difficulty in refraining from telling his secret to his beloved, and it was with even more difficulty that he tore himself away at half-past three.

He had not been five minutes in his studio when there was a knock at the door, and Lecoq entered, followed by an elderly gentleman of aristocratic and haughty appearance.  It was the Duke of Champdoce.

“This gentleman,” said the Duke, with a gesture of his hand towards Lecoq, “will have told you that certain circumstances rendered it expedient, according to my ideas, that I should not acknowledge you as my heir, but my son.  The fault that I then committed has been cruelly expiated.  I am not forty-eight; look at me.”

The Duke looked at least sixty.

“My sins,” continued the Duke, “still pursue me.  To-day, in spite of all my desires, I cannot claim you as my legitimate son, for the law only permits me to give you my name and fortune by exercising the right of adoption.”

Andre made no reply, and the Duke went on with evident hesitation,—­

“You can certainly institute proceedings against me for the recovery of your rights, but—­”

“Ah!” interrupted the young man, “really, what sort of person do you think I am?  Do you believe me capable of dishonoring your name before I assumed it?”

The Duke drew a deep breath of relief.  Andre’s manner had checked and restrained him, for it was frigid and glacial to a degree.  What a difference there was between the haughty mien of Andre and the gushing effusiveness of Paul!

“Will you permit me,” asked Andre, “to address a few words to you?”

“A few words?”