“He was young, and he was clever, and he was handsome,” said the proprietor, “men admired him, and women loved him. The lady who posed for this portrait was one of those who loved him. She had loved other men. She had loved an Italian prince. But he died. She had loved an English lord. But he died, also. And then—she loved Paul Gaspard.”
“And then he too died!” said the man.
“Yes—and he too died!” said the proprietor.
“How did he die?” said the man.
“Nobody knows how—or why,” said the proprietor. “He was found dead in his bed one morning. That was all. There was some sort of a wound, or a scar, on his breast, over his heart. For a time the coroner was puzzled. At first there was some thought of suicide—or even of murder. But, in the end, the authorities decided that Paul Gaspard had died from natural causes, and there the matter ended.”
“And the picture,” said the man.
“The picture had just been finished on the very day he died,” said the proprietor, “by a strange coincidence.”
“Very strange indeed!” said the man.
“Paul Gaspard had from time to time borrowed sums of money from me, until he owed me in all some fifteen hundred francs,” said the proprietor, “so when he died, and left no money, I claimed the picture—and I got it.”
“And the lady who posed for it?” said the man.