he equivocal utterance bore any reference to
himself. Had he also had the wit to perceive that if she indeed cared
for the villa or for any other object at this time, it was only for some
service which it might render her brother, his duties as dragon would
have occasioned him far less of mental anguish.

Celio was writing one day in a room adjoining the apartment which
Canova had used as his studio in the casino of Villa Borghese, when he
was startled by a heavy step in the room which he had supposed
unoccupied. Throwing aside the portiere he instantly recognised from
report the imposing figure which confronted him. On a lesser man so
gorgeous a costume as the one which now dazzled the astonished eyes of
the secretary would have suggested the mountebank; but there was
something regal as well as Oriental in Joachim Murat's appearance, and
the barbarous colour extravagances of his dress became him like those of
a sultan.

His curling hair, black and long, fell upon a green velvet cloak heavily
embroidered with gold which hung from his shoulders displaying a
sky-blue frogged tunic, whose breast was covered with jewelled crosses
and beribboned decorations. The crimson breeches which met the high
boots of yellow morocco were braided with gold in the Polish fashion and
fitted closely his shapely thighs, but the tarnished and battered
cavalry sabre clanking at his side occasioned him no inconvenience, and
it needed but a glance at the broken plumes of the ruby-clasped aigrette
which decorated a shabby wide-brimmed hat to convince the beholder that
this was no gala costume but the habitual garb of a soldier. He was
spurred and played nonchalantly with his riding-whip as he returned
Celio's questioning glance with a smile, half arrogant, half familiar.
Wheeling upon his heel without deigning any explanation of his presence,
he returned to his contemplation of the portrait statue of the Princess,
and the young secretary's blood boiled as he saw that the expression of
contemptuous familiarity on the sensual face had been elicited not by
his insignificant self but by the masterpiece of Canova.

"A fair portrait doubtless," he said indifferently, "for I recognise
certain points of resemblance to her sister, whose perfections, however,
the Princess Borghese cannot hope to emulate."

"Pardon me, sir," stammered the secretary in tones which he vainly
strove to render icy,--"but this is the Villa Borghese and not a public
museum."