s 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 my hours of
madness--as to-day, for instance, here, with you near me--I dare to think
that I might be less unfortunate than my friend--that his dream is gone
forever--but that mine might return to me--if you were willing."

She quickly turned toward me, and in the darkness I saw her eyes fixed on
mine.

Did the darkness deceive me as to the meaning of this mute response? Was
I the victim of a fresh delusion? I fancied that Jeanne looked sad, that
perhaps she was thinking of the oaths sworn only to be broken by her
former lover, but that she was not quite displeased.

However, it lasted only for a second. When she spoke, it was in a higher
key:

"Don't you think the breeze is very fresh this evening?"

A long-drawn sigh came from the back part of the carriage. M. Charnot was
waking up.

He wished to prove that he had only been meditating.

"Yes, my dear, it's a charming evening," he replied; "these Italian
nights certainly keep up their reputation."

Ten minutes later the carriage drew up, and M. Charnot shook hands with
me before the door of his hotel.

"Many thanks, my dear young sir, for this delightful drive home! I hope
we shall meet again. We are off to Florence to-morrow; is there anything