Florestan put on a crafty air, and replied in gentle accents. “The day before yesterday, as I was smoking my pipe outside, I saw this young bantam swaggering down the street--not but what he seemed rather crestfallen; but I knew the reason for that, and should look just as much in the dumps if my young woman was laid up. I thought, as I had nothing to do, I might as well see who he was and where he lived; so, sticking my hands in my pockets, after him I sloped. He walked such a long way, that I got precious sick of my job, but at last I ran him to earth in a house. I went straight up to the lodge, and showed the portress my tobacco pouch, and said, ‘I picked up this; I think that the gentleman who has just gone in dropped it. Do you know him?’ ‘Of course I do,’ said she. ‘He is a painter; lives on the fourth floor; and his name is M. Andre.’” “Was the house in the Rue de la Tour d’Auvergne?” broke in Mascarin. “You are right, sir,” returned the man, taken a little aback. “It seems, sir, that you are better informed than I am.” Mascarin did not notice the man’s surprise, but he was struck with the strange persistency with which this young man seemed to cross his plans, for he found that the acquaintance of Rose and the lover of Mademoiselle de Mussidan were one and the same person, and he had a presentiment that he would in some way prove a hindrance to his plans. The astute Mascarin concentrated all his attention upon Andre. The latter said something to Modeste, which caused that young woman to raise her hands to heaven, as though in alarm. “But who is the other?” asked he,--“the fellow that looks like an Englishman?” “Do you not know?” returned the lackey. “Why, that is M. de Breulh-Faverlay.” “What, the man who was to marry Sabine?” “Certainly.” Mascarin was not easily disconcerted, but this time a blasphemous oath burst from his lips. “Do you mean,” said he, “that De Breulh and this painter are friends?” “That is more than I can tell. You seem to want to know a lot,” answered Florestan, sulkily. Modeste had now left the young men, who walked arm in arm in the direction of the Avenue de l’Imperatrice. “M. de Breulh takes his dismissal easily enough,” observed Mascarin. “He was not dismissed; it was he that wrote and broke off the engagement.” This time Mascarin contrived to conceal the terrible blow that this information caused to him, and even made some jesting remark as he took leave of Florestan; but he was in truth completely staggered, for after thoroughly believing that the game was won, he saw that, though perhaps not lost, his victory was postponed for an indefinite period. “What!” said he, as he clenched his hand firmly, “shall the headstrong passion of this foolish boy mar my plans? Let him take care of himself; for if he walks in my path, he will find it a road that leads to his own destruction.” CHAPTER XXI. AN ACADEMY OF MUSIC.