We soon came to the end of the gallery, and the door which gave access into the second room of paintings.

Suddenly Jeanne gave an exclamation of surprise.

“What is that?” she said.

Beneath the large and lofty window, fanned on the outside by leafy branches, a wooden panel, bearing an inscription, stood upright against the wall.  The words were painted in black on a white ground, and arranged with considerable skill, after the style of the classic epitaphs which the Italians still cultivate.

I drew aside the folds of a curtain: 

“It is one of those memorial tablets, Mademoiselle, such as people hang up in this part of the country upon the church doors on the day of the funeral.  It means: 

“To thee, Rafaella Dannegianti—­who, aged twenty years and few months—­having fully experienced the sorrows and illusions of this world—­on January 6—­like an angel longing for its heavenly home—­didst wing thy way to God in peace and happiness—­the clergy of Desioand the laborers and artificers of the noble house of Dannegianti—­tender these last solemn offices.”

“This Rafaella, then, was the Count’s daughter?”

“His only child, a girl lovely and gracious beyond rivalry.”

“Oh, of course, beyond rivalry.  Are not all only daughters lovely and perfect when once they are dead?” she replied with a bitter smile.  “They have their legend, their cult, and usually a flattering portrait.  I am surprised that Rafaella’s is not here.  I imagine her portrait as representing a tall girl, with long, well-arched eyebrows, and brown eyes—­”

“Greenish-brown.”

“Green, if you prefer it; a small nose, cherry lips, and a mass of light brown hair.”

“Golden brown would be more correct.”

“Have you seen it, then?  Is there one?”

“Yes, Mademoiselle, and it lacks no perfection that you could imagine, not even that smile of happy youth which was a falsehood ere the paint had yet dried on the canvas.  Here, before this relic, which recalls it to my thoughts, I must confess that I am touched.”

She looked at me in astonishment.

“Where is the portrait?  Not here?”

“No, it is at Paris, in my friend Lampron’s studio.”

“O—­oh!” She blushed slightly.

“Yes, Mademoiselle, it is at once a masterpiece and a sad reminder.  The story is very simple, and I am sure my friend would not mind my telling it to you—­to you if to no other—­before these relics of the past.

“When Lampron was a young man travelling in Italy he fell in love with this young girl, whose portrait he was painting.  He loved her, perhaps without confessing it to himself, certainly without avowing it to her.  Such is the way of timid and humble men of heart, men whose love is nearly always misconstrued when it ceases to be unnoticed.  My friend risked the happiness of his life, fearlessly, without calculation—­and lost it.  A day came when Rafaella Dannegianti was carried off by her parents, who shuddered at the thought of her stooping to a painter, even though he were a genius.”