“Dear old father!  You gave him a real treat, for which he will always be obliged to you.”

“I trust the recollection of to-day will efface that of the blot of ink, for which I am still filled with remorse.”

“Remorse is rather a serious word.”

“No, Mademoiselle, I really mean remorse, for I wounded the feelings of a gentleman who has every claim on my respect.  I never have dared to speak of this before.  But if you would be kind enough to tell Monsieur Charnot how sorry I have been for it, you would relieve me of a burden.”

I saw her eyes fixed upon me for a moment with a look of attention not previously granted to me.  She seemed pleased.

“With all my heart,” she said.

There was a moment’s silence.

“Was this Rafaella, whose story you have told me, worthy of your friend’s long regret?”

“I must believe so.”

“It is a very touching story.  Are you fond of Monsieur Lampron?”

“Beyond expression, Mademoiselle; he is so openhearted, so true a friend, he has the soul of the artist and the seer.  I am sure you would rate him very highly if you knew him.”

“But I do know him, at least by his works.  Where am I to be seen now, by the way?  What has become of my portrait?”

“It’s at Lampron’s house, in his mother’s room, where Monsieur Charnot can go and see it if he likes.”

“My father does not know of its existence,” she said, with a glance at the slumbering man of learning.

“Has he not seen it?”

“No, he would have made so much ado about nothing.  So Monsieur Lampron has kept the sketch?  I thought it had been sold long ago.”

“Sold! you did not think he would sell it!”

“Why not?  Every artist has the right to sell his works.”

“Not work of that kind.”

“Just as much as any other kind.”

“No, he could not have done that.  He would no more sell it than he would sell the portrait of Rafaella Dannegianti.  They are two similar relics, two precious reminiscences.”

Mademoiselle Charnot turned, without a reply, to look at the country which was flying past us in the darkness.

I could just see her profile, and the nervous movement of her eyelids.

As she made no attempt to speak, her silence emboldened me.

“Yes, Mademoiselle, two similar relics, yet sometimes in my hours of madness—­as to-day, for instance, here, with you near me—­I dare to think that I might be less unfortunate than my friend—­that his dream is gone forever—­but that mine might return to me—­if you were willing.”

She quickly turned toward me, and in the darkness I saw her eyes fixed on mine.

Did the darkness deceive me as to the meaning of this mute response?  Was I the victim of a fresh delusion?  I fancied that Jeanne looked sad, that perhaps she was thinking of the oaths sworn only to be broken by her former lover, but that she was not quite displeased.