"My faith, monsieur, I'll give it to you willingly; as the bands of my papers are all printed, it will not be any great harm in showing them to you." I took a pencil, and wrote down the names as he read them off to me. He named three or four which were perfectly uninteresting to me, and, finally, giving the number of Hélène's house, said, "M. Frank, artist." I asked him, in order to put him on a false track, if, in the list of his subscribers who lived on the boulevard, there was not a M. de Verneuil. He examined his list, replied that there was no such person, thanked me, and I returned home almost happy. The name Frank was evidently that of a foreigner; Hélène must then have married during her voyage to Germany, and married an artist who, to all appearances, was as yet very little known, for I had never heard his name before. I went, however, that very day to the exhibition of paintings, hoping to find in the catalogue some notice of Hélène's husband. What inexplicable interest made me do all this? Almost certain that Hélène was happy, my discoveries could only result in misery to myself; but, whether I saw in all this interest in Hélène only a means of distracting my thoughts from the remembrance of Marguerite, or whether I was only following the influence of a sentiment which was still smouldering in my heart, I awoke from the apathy which had been dulling my senses for so many days, and began my investigations with an energy that astonished me. The exposition was drawing to its close; I entered the gallery, where there were very few people. I opened the catalogue, and there I found the name of M. Frank, Boulevard Beaumarchais, No. --. One painting and two water-colours were inscribed with his name. One was a fragment from a scene in Goethe's "Egmont." The painter had chosen the end of the charming interview between Claire and Egmont, who, at the request of his naïve mistress, has come to the humble abode where she dwells with her mother, clothed in all the splendid vesture which he wore to the court. "What splendour," cries Claire, as she admires, with childish joy, the dazzling costume of the man she loves with such profound and candid passion. "And this velvet," continues she, "and these embroideries! I know not where to begin. And the collar of the Golden Fleece! You told me once that it was a distinction of great merit. I can compare it, then, to your love for me, for I wear it here, next my heart." This is the notice of the picture as it was printed in the catalogue. _No. --. M. Frank, Painter._ _Claire and Egmont._ _Claire._--Ah, let me be silent! Let me embrace thee! Let me fix my eyes on thine, and there find all things,--consolation, hope, joy, and sorrow. (She clasps him in her arms and gazes on him.) Tell me, tell me,--it seems so strange,--art thou, then, Egmont? Count Egmont? The great Egmont, who makes such a stir in the world, who figures in the Gazette, who is the hope of the country?