“See,” said the former broker of Berlin and of Paris, now an enlightened amateur—­“see, how that charlatan of a Fossati has taken care not to increase the number of trinkets now that we are in the reception-rooms.  These armchairs seem to await invited guests.  They are known.  They have been illustrated in a magazine of decorative art in Paris.  And that dining-room through that door, with all the silver on the table, would you not think a fete had been prepared?”

“Baron,” said Madame Gorka, “look at this material; it is of the eighteenth century, is it not?”

“Baron,” asked Madame Maitland, “is this cup with the lid old Vienna or Capadimonte?”

“Baron,” said Florent Chapron, “is this armor of Florentine or Milanese workmanship?”

The eyeglass was raised to the Baron’s thin nose, his small eyes glittered, his lips were pursed up, and he replied, in words as exact as if he had studied all the details of the catalogue verbatim.  Their thanks were soon followed by many other questions, in which two voices alone did not join, that of Alba Steno and that of Dorsenne.  Under any other circumstances, the latter would have tried to dissipate the increasing sadness of the young girl, who said no more to him after he repulsed her amicable anxiety.  In reality, he attached no great importance to it.  Those transitions from excessive gayety to sudden depression were so habitual with the Contessina, above all when with him.  Although they were the sign of a vivid sentiment, the young man saw in them only nervous unrest, for his mind was absorbed with other thoughts.

He asked himself if, at any hazard, after the manner in which Madame Gorka had spoken, it would not be more prudent to acquaint Lincoln Maitland with the secret return of his rival.  Perhaps the drama had not yet taken place, and if only the two persons threatened were warned, no doubt Hafner would put Countess Steno upon her guard.  But when would he see her?  What if he, Dorsenne, should at once tell Maitland’s brother-in-law of Gorka’s return, to that Florent Chapron whom he saw at the moment glancing at all the objects of the princely exposition?  The step was an enormous undertaking, and would have appeared so to any one but Julien, who knew that the relations between Florent Chapron and Lincoln Maitland were of a very exceptional nature.  Julien knew that Florent—­sent when very young to the Jesuits of Beaumont, in England, by a father anxious to spare him the humiliation which his blood would call down upon him in America—­had formed a friendship with Lincoln, a pupil in the same school.  He knew that the friendship for the schoolmate had turned to enthusiasm for the artist, when the talent of his old comrade had begun to reveal itself.  He knew that the marriage, which had placed the fortune of Lydia at the service of the development of the painter, had been the work of that enthusiasm at an epoch when Maitland, spoiled by the unwise government of his