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 canvas.” “Stop,” cried Andre with an angry glance in his eyes. “The picture you refer to is the portrait of the purest and most innocent girl in the world. I shall love her all my life; but, if possible, my respect for her is greater than my love. I should consider myself a most degraded wretch, had I ever whispered in her ear a word that her mother might not have listened to.” A feeling of the most instantaneous relief thrilled through M. de Mussidan’s heart.