dissemble, then he would be better able to find a pretext for an argument.  It is so easy to find one in the simplest conversation, and from an argument a quarrel is soon born.  He would speak in such a manner that Maitland would have to answer him.  The rest would follow.  But would Alba Steno be present?  Ha, so much the better!  He would be so much more at ease, if the altercation arose before her, to deceive his own wife as to the veritable reason of the duel.  Ah, he would have his dispute at any price, and from the moment that the seconds had exchanged visits the American’s fate would be decided.  He knew how to render it impossible for the fellow to remain longer in Rome.  The young man was greatly wrought up by the romance of the provocation and the duel.

“How it refreshes the blood to be avenged upon two fools,” said he to himself, descending from his cab and inquiring at the door of the Moorish house.

“Monsieur Maitland?” he asked the footman, who at one blow dissipated his excitement by replying with this simple phrase, the only one of which he had not thought in his frenzy: 

“Monsieur is not at home.”

“He will be at home to me,” replied Boleslas.  “I have an appointment with Madame and Mademoiselle Steno, who are awaiting me.”

“Monsieur’s orders are strict,” replied the servant.

Accustomed, as are all servants entrusted with the defence of an artist’s work, to a certain rigor of orders, he yet hesitated, in the face of the untruth which Gorka had invented on the spur of the moment, and he was about to yield to his importunity when some one appeared on the staircase of the hall.  That some one was none other than Florent Chapron.  Chance decreed that the latter should send for a carriage in which to go to lunch, and that the carriage should be late.  At the sound of wheels stopping at the door, he looked out of one of the windows of his apartment, which faced the street.  He saw Gorka alight.  Such a visit, at such an hour, with the persons who were in the atelier, seemed to him so dangerous that he ran downstairs immediately.  He took up his hat and his cane, to justify his presence in the hall by the very natural excuse that he was going out.  He reached the middle of the staircase just in time to stop the servant, who had decided to “go and see,” and, bowing to Boleslas with more formality than usual: 

“My brother-in-law is not there, Monsieur,” said he; and he added, turning to the footman, in order to dispose of him in case an altercation should arise between the importunate visitor and himself, “Nero, fetch me a handkerchief from my room.  I have forgotten mine.”

“That order could not be meant for me, Monsieur,” insisted Boleslas.  “Monsieur Maitland has made an appointment with me, with Madame Steno, in order to show us Alba’s portrait.”

“It is no order,” replied Florent.  “I repeat to you that my brother-in-law has gone out.  The studio is closed, and it is impossible for me to undertake to open it to show you the picture, since I have not the key.  As for Madame and Mademoiselle Steno, they have not been here for several days; the sittings have been interrupted.”