t tap on his shoulder, accompanied by the words,--

"Bravo, _mon cher_! You are getting on famously. That is Rose
herself--as radiant as she appears on the stage, when the focus of a
_lorgnette_ has excluded all the stupid and _ennuyantes_ figures that
surround her."

The speaker was Sir Frederic Stanley, an English baronet, now some
months in Paris, where he had plunged into all the gayeties of the
season. He was a handsome man, of middle age, whose features bore the
impress of dissipation.

"You know the original, then?" asked the painter, somewhat coldly.

"Know her! My dear fellow, I don't know any body else, as the Yankees
say. Why, I have the entry of the _Gaite_, and pass all my evenings
behind the scenes. I flatter myself--but no matter. I have taken a
fancy to that picture: what do you say to a hundred louis for it?"

"It is not for me to dispose of it."

"You have succeeded so well, you wish to keep it for yourself--eh?
Double the price, and let me have it!"

"Impossible, Sir Frederic. It is painted for Mlle. d'Amour herself,
and she designs it for a present."

"Say no more," said the baronet, with a self-satisfied smile. "I think
I could name the happy individual."

Ernest would not gratify his visitor by a question, and the latter,
finding the artist reserved and _distrait_, suddenly recollected the
races at Chantilly, and took his leave.

"Can it be possible," thought the painter, "that Rose has suffered her
affections to repose on that conceited, purse-proud, elderly
Englishman? O, woman! woman! how readily you barter the wealth of your
heart for a handful of gold!"

Another tap at the door--another visitor! Really, Lavalle must be
getting famous! This time it is a lady--a lady of surpassing
loveliness--one of those well-preserved Englishwomen, who, at forty,
are as attractive as at twenty. This lady was tall and stately, with
elegant manners, and perhaps a thought of sadness in her expression.
She gazed long and earnestly upon the portrait of Rose d'Amour.

"It is a beautiful face!" she said, at length. "And one that
indicates, I should think, goodness of heart."

"She is an angel!" said the painter.

"You speak warmly, sir," said the lady, with a sad smile.

Ernest blushed, for he feared that he had betrayed his secret. The
lady did not appear to notice his embarrassment, and passed to the
occasion of her visit, which was to engage the young artist to paint
her portrait--a task which h