At the moment Florent entered the studio that work so completely absorbed the attention of the painter that he did not hear the door open any more than did Madame Steno, who was smoking cigarettes, reclining indolently and blissfully upon the divan, her half-closed eyes fixed upon the man she loved.  Lincoln only divined another presence by a change in Alba’s face.  God!  How pale she was, seated in the immobility of her pose in a large, heraldic armchair, with a back of carved wood, her hands grasping the arms, her mouth so bitter, her eyes so deep in their fixed glance!...  Did she divine that which she could not, however, know, that her fate was approaching with the visitor who entered, and who, having left the studio fifteen minutes before, had to justify his return by an excuse.

“It is I,” said he.  “I forgot to ask you, Lincoln, if you wish to buy Ardea’s three drawings at the price they offer.”

“Why did you not tell me of it yesterday, my little Linco?” interrupted the Countess.  “I saw Peppino again this morning....  I would have from him his lowest figure.”

“That would only be lacking,” replied Maitland, laughing his large laugh.  “He does not acknowledge those drawings, dear dogaresse....  They are a part of the series of trinkets he carefully subtracted from his creditor’s inventory and put in different places.  There are some at seven or eight antiquaries’, and we may expect that for the next ten years all the cockneys of my country will be allured by this phrase, ’This is from the Palais Castagna.  I have it by a little arrangement.’”

His eyes sparkled as he imitated one of the most celebrated bric-a-brac dealers in Rome, with the incomparable art of imitation which distinguishes all the old habitues of Parisian studios.

“At present these three drawings are at an antiquary’s of Babuino, and very authentic.”

“Except when they are represented as Vincis,” said Florent, “when Leonardo was left-handed, and their hatchings are made from left to right.”

“And you think Ardea would not agree with me in it?” resumed the Countess.

“Not even with you,” said the painter.  “He had the assurance last night, when I mentioned them before him, to ask me the address in order to go to see them.”

“How did you learn their production?” questioned Madame Steno.

“Ask him,” said Maitland, pointing to Chapron with the end of his brush.  “When there is a question of enriching his old Maitland’s collection, he becomes more of a merchant than the merchants themselves.  They tell him all....  Vinci or no Vinci, it is the pure Lombard style.  Buy them.  I want them.”

“I will go, then,” replied Florent.  “Countess. . . .  Contessina.”