And, without waiting for the steps to be let down, he jumped on the sidewalk, and, running ahead of his servants, knocked at the door of Miss Brandon’s house.  It was by no means one of those modern structures which attract the eye of the passer-by by a ridiculous and conspicuous splendor.  Looking at it from the street, you would have taken it for the modest house of a retired grocer, who was living in it upon his savings at the rate of two or three thousand a year.  It is true, that from the street, you could see neither the garden, nor the stables and the carriage-houses.

In the meantime a servant had appeared, who took the count’s and Daniel’s coats, and showed them up stairs.  When they reached the upper landing, the count stopped, as if his breath had been giving out of a sudden.

“There,” he stammered, “there!”

“Where?  What?” Daniel did not know what he meant.  The count only wished to say that “there” was the place where he had held Miss Brandon in his arms the day she had fainted.  But Daniel had no time to ask any questions.  Another servant appeared, coming out of the rooms, and, bowing low before Count Ville-Handry, he said,—­

“The ladies have but just risen from table, and are still dressing.”

“Ah!”

“If the gentlemen will please sit down in the parlor, I will tell M. Elgin.”

“Very well,” said the count, speaking in a tone which showed that he considered himself perfectly at home in Miss Brandon’s house.  He entered the parlor, followed by Daniel.  It was a magnificent room; but every thing in it, from the carpet on the floor to the chandelier on the ceiling, betrayed the Puritanic taste of Mrs. Brian.  It was splendid; but the splendor was cold, stiff, and mournful.  The furniture had sharp angles, and suggested any thing but comfort.  The bronze figures on the mantlepiece-clock were biblical personages; and the other bronzes were simply hideous.  Except these, there was no ornament visible, not a painting, nor a statuette.

Yes, one.  Opposite the fireplace, in the place of honor, there stared at you a painting in a most costly gilt frame,—­a horrible daub, representing a man of about fifty years, who wore a fancy uniform with enormous epaulets, a huge sword, a plumed hat, and a blue sash, into which two revolvers were thrust.

“Gen. Brandon, Miss Sarah’s father,” said Count Ville-Handry, in a tone of deep respect, which unnerved Daniel.  “As a work of art, this portrait leaves, no doubt, much to be wished for; but they say the likeness is excellent.”

Certainly, though that might be so, there was no resemblance to be discovered between the tanned face of this American general and the blooming features of Miss Brandon.  But there was something more.  As Daniel examined this picture nearer by, and more closely, he thought he discovered a studied and intentional coarseness of execution.  It looked to him like the work of an artist who had endeavored to imitate those wretched painters who live upon the vanity of weak men and little children.  He thought he discovered by the side of gross inaccuracies unmistakable traces of a master’s hand; and especially one of the ears, half hid behind the hair, seemed to him admirably done.