u will have to
follow," laughed the monarch. "I will not leave one." He rummaged gayly
in the unfinished debris, bringing out with each turn some new theme of
delight.

The painter stood by, waiting, alert, a trifle uneasy, it might seem.
"And now, sire, shall we see the view from the little western turret?"

"One moment. Ah, what have we here?" He turned the canvas to the light.
The figure against the quaint landscape looked out with level, smiling
glance. He fell upon his knees before it. "Ah, marvellous, marvellous!"
he murmured in naive delight. He remained long before it, absorbed,
forgetful. At last he rose. He lifted the picture and placed it on an
easel. "Is she yet alive?" he demanded, turning to the painter.

"She lives in Florence, sire."

"And her name?"

"Signora Lisa della Gioconda."

"Her husband? It matters not."

"Dead these ten years."

"And children?"

"A boy. Born shortly after the husband's death," he added, after a
slight pause. "Shall we proceed to the turret? The light changes fast at
sunset."

"Presently, presently. The portrait must be mine. The original--We shall
see--we shall see."

"Nay, your Majesty, the portrait is unfinished."

"Unfinished?" He stared at it anew. "Impossible. It is perfect."

"There was to be a child."

"Ah!" The monarch gazed at it intently for many minutes. The portrait
returned the royal look in kind. He broke into a light laugh. "You did
well to omit the child," he said. "Come, we will see the famous sunset
now." He turned to the regal figure on the easel. "Adieu, Mona Lisa. I
come for you again." He kissed his fingers with airy grace. He fluttered
out. The mocking, sidelong glance followed him.

III

The western sun filled the room. On a couch drawn near the low French
window lay the painter. His eyes looked across the valley to a long line
of poplars, silver in the wind. Like a strange processional, up the
hill, they held him. They came from Lombardy. In the brasier, across the
room, burned a flickering fire. Even on the warmest days he shivered for
sunnier skies. Above the fire hung a picture--a woman seated in a
rock-bound circle, looking tranquilly out upon the world of life.

The painter touched a silver bell that stood on a table at hand. A
figure entered. It crossed to the window. The face was turned in shadow.
It waited.

"Has our good physician gone, Francesco?" asked the painter.

Francesco bowed. There was silence in the r