hour," said Gouache, quietly.

And he kept his word. But he had told no one, save the Cardinal, of his
intention; and for a day or two, though he passed many acquaintances in
the street, no one recognised Anastase Gouache in the handsome young
soldier with his grey Turco uniform, a red sash round his slender waist,
and a small _kepi_ set jauntily upon one side.

It was one of the phenomena of those times. Foreigners swarmed in Rome,
and many of them joined the cosmopolitan corps--gentlemen, noblemen,
artists, men of the learned professions, adventurers, duellists driven
from their country in a temporary exile, enthusiasts, strolling
Irishmen, men of all sorts and conditions. But, take them all in all,
they were a fine set of fellows, who set no value whatever on their
lives, and who, as a whole, fought for an idea, in the old crusading
spirit. There were many who, like Gouache, joined solely from conviction;
and there were few instances indeed of any who, having joined, deserted.
It often happened that a stranger came to Rome for a mere visit, and at
the end of a month surprised his friends by appearing in the grey
uniform. You had met him the night before at a ball in the ordinary garb
of civilisation, covered with cotillon favours, waltzing like a madman;
the next morning he entered the Cafe de Rome in a braided jacket open at
the throat, and told you he was a soldier--a private soldier, who touched
his cap to every corporal of the French infantry, and was liable to be
locked up for twenty-four hours if he was late to quarters.

Donna Tullia's portrait was not quite finished, and Gouache had asked for
one or two more sittings. Three days after the artist had taken his great
resolution, Madame Mayer and Del Ferice entered his studio. He had had no
difficulty in being at liberty at the hour of the sitting, and had merely
exchanged his jacket for an old painting-coat, not taking the trouble to
divest himself of the remainder of his uniform.

"Where have you been all this time?" asked Donna Tullia, as she lifted
the curtain and entered the studio. He had kept out of her way during the
past few days.

"Good heavens, Gouache!" cried Del Ferice, starting back, as he caught
sight of the artist's grey trousers and yellow gaiters. "What is the
meaning of this comedy?"

"What?" asked Gouache, coolly. Then, glancing at his legs, he answered,
"Oh, nothing. I have turned Zouave--that is all. Will you sit down, Donna
Tullia?