“Pardon me,” interrupted Gouache, whose face reddened suddenly, “I had no intention of proposing to sell you a picture.  I am not in the habit of advertising myself nor of soliciting orders for my work.”

“My dear sir!” exclaimed the prince, seeing that he was on a wrong tack, “have I suggested such a thing?  If my words conveyed the idea, pray accept all my excuses.  Since you had mentioned the subject of art, my thoughts naturally were directed to my gallery of pictures.  I am delighted to hear of your success, for you know how much interest we all feel in him who was the victim of such an unfortunate accident, due doubtless to the carelessness of my men.”

“Pray do not recall that!  Your hospitality more than repaid me for the little I suffered.  The matter concerning which I wish to speak to you is a very serious one, and I hope you will believe that I have considered it well before taking a step which may at first surprise you.  To be plain, I come to ask you to confer upon me the honour of Donna Faustina Montevarchi’s hand.”

Montevarchi leaned back in his chair, speechless with amazement.  He seemed to gasp for breath as his long fingers pressed the green table-cover before him.  His small eyes were wide open, and his toothless jaw dropped.  Gouache feared that he was going to be taken ill.

“You!” cried the old man in a cracked voice, when he had recovered himself enough to be able to speak.

“Yes,” answered Anastase, who was beginning to feel very nervous as he observed the first results of his proposal.  He had never before quite realised how utterly absurd the match would seem to Montevarchi.  “Yes,” he repeated.  “Is the idea so surprising?  Is it inconceivable to you that I should love your daughter?  Can you not understand—­”

“I understand that you are wholly mad!” exclaimed the prince, still staring at his visitor in blank astonishment.

“No, I am not mad.  I love Donna Faustina—­”

“You!  You dare to love Faustina!  You, a painter, a man with a profession and with nothing but what you earn!  You, a Zouave, a man without a name, without—­”

“You are an old man, prince, but the fact of my having made you an honourable proposition does not give you the right to insult me.”  The words were spoken in a sharp, determined voice, and brought Montevarchi to his senses.  He was a terrible coward and would rather go to a considerable expense than face an angry man.

“Insult you, my dear sir?  I would not think of it!” he answered in a very different tone.  “But my dear Monsieur Gouache, I fear that this is quite impossible!  In the first place, my daughter’s marriage is already arranged.  The negotiations have been proceeding for some time—­she is to marry Frangipani—­you must have heard it.  And, moreover, with all due respect for the position you have gained by your immense talent—­immense, my dear friend, I am the first to say it—­the instability of human affairs obliges me to seek for her a fortune, which depends upon the vulgar possession of wealth rather than upon those divine gifts of genius with which you are so richly endowed.”