es in short. Would you like
to see them?"

The Count replied eagerly in the affirmative. He was terribly
embarrassed under his fictitious name, and shrank before the honest,
open gaze of the young artist, and his mental disturbance was completed
by seeing in one corner of the room the picture covered with a green
cloth, which Tantaine had alluded to. It was evident that the old
villain had told the truth, and that his daughter's portrait was
concealed behind this wrapper. She had evidently been here--had spent
hours here, and whose fault was it? She had but listened to the voice of
her heart, and had sought that affection abroad which she was unable to
obtain at home. As the Count gazed upon the young man before him, he was
forced to admit that Mademoiselle Sabine had not fixed her affections on
an unworthy object, for at the very first glance he had been struck with
the manly beauty of the young artist, and the clear intelligence of his
face.

"Ah," thought Andre, "you come to me under a name that is not your
own, and I will respect your wish to remain unknown, but I will take
advantage of it by letting you know things which I should not dare say
to your face."

Great as was Andre's preoccupation, he could not fail to notice that his
visitor's eyes sought the veiled picture with strange persistency. While
M. de Mussidan was looking at the various sketches on the walls, Andre
had time to recover all his self-command.

"Let me congratulate you, sir," remarked the Count, as he returned to
the spot where the painter was standing. "My friend's admiration was
well founded. I am sorry, however, that you have nothing finished to
show me. You say that you have nothing, I believe?"

"Nothing, Marquis."

"Not even that picture whose frame I can distinguish through the serge
curtain that covers it?"

Andre blushed, though he had been expecting the question from the
commencement.

"Excuse me," answered he; "that picture is certainly finished, but it is
not on view."

The Count was now sure that Tantaine's statement was correct.

"I suppose that it is some woman's portrait," remarked the false
Marquis.

"You are quite correct."

Both men were much agitated at this moment, and avoided meeting each
other's eyes.

The Count, however, had made up his mind that he would go on to the end.

"Ah, you are in love, I see!" remarked he with a forced laugh. "All
great artists have depicted the charms of their mistresses on c