father; he is rather tired this evening, for he has
been on his feet since five o'clock."

"The day has been so hot, too, Mademoiselle, and the medals 'came not
in single spies, but in battalions'; he has a right to sleep after the
battle."

"Dear old father! You gave him a real treat, for which he will always be
obliged to you."

"I trust the recollection of to-day will efface that of the blot of ink,
for which I am still filled with remorse."

"Remorse is rather a serious word."

"No, Mademoiselle, I really mean remorse, for I wounded the feelings
of a gentleman who has every claim on my respect. I never have dared to
speak of this before. But if you would be kind enough to tell Monsieur
Charnot how sorry I have been for it, you would relieve me of a burden."

I saw her eyes fixed upon me for a moment with a look of attention not
previously granted to me. She seemed pleased.

"With all my heart," she said.

There was a moment's silence.

"Was this Rafaella, whose story you have told me, worthy of your
friend's long regret?"

"I must believe so."

"It is a very touching story. Are you fond of Monsieur Lampron?"

"Beyond expression, Mademoiselle; he is so openhearted, so true a
friend, he has the soul of the artist and the seer. I am sure you would
rate him very highly if you knew him."

"But I do know him, at least by his works. Where am I to be seen now, by
the way? What has become of my portrait?"

"It's at Lampron's house, in his mother's room, where Monsieur Charnot
can go and see it if he likes."

"My father does not know of its existence," she said, with a glance at
the slumbering man of learning.

"Has he not seen it?"

"No, he would have made so much ado about nothing. So Monsieur Lampron
has kept the sketch? I thought it had been sold long ago."

"Sold! you did not think he would sell it!"

"Why not? Every artist has the right to sell his works."

"Not work of that kind."

"Just as much as any other kind."

"No, he could not have done that. He would no more sell it than he would
sell the portrait of Rafaella Dannegianti. They are two similar relics,
two precious reminiscences."

Mademoiselle Charnot turned, without a reply, to look at the country
which was flying past us in the darkness.

I could just see her profile, and the nervous movement of her eyelids.

As she made no attempt to speak, her silence emboldened me.

"Yes, Mademoiselle, two similar relics, yet sometimes in