"Yes; here I am, returning from Italy with your mother. I did not want to pass so near you without dropping in to see you."
He was a man about forty years old, very tall, broad-shouldered, and strikingly handsome. His hair, slightly gray, covered only the back and sides of his head. He was elegantly but very simply dressed—the ribbon of the Legion of Honor at his button-hole.
Claude Sirvin, in 1876, was at the height of his fame and renown. Life had only caresses to offer him. When very young, he won the great "prix de Rome" by his "Death of Beaurepaire." As usual, wealth and honor accompanied success, and he stepped at once to the front rank among artists. He was a man of the world at the same time, and allowed himself to be made love to by the dozens of pretty little fools who are always ready to throw themselves at the head of any celebrated man. Having always plenty of money at his command, he lived the life of a prince, spending freely and enjoying life to the utmost. But he always kept his glowing, devoted passion for his art free from the least stain or impurity. It was his religion, his faith, his God. He was admitted to the Institute in 1873. A few months later, a rumor arose that Claude was Claude no longer—Claude was going to be married; then that Claude was married.
At first, no one would believe the absurd report. Every one added his witticism, to the effect that it was impossible. What would become of all the forsaken Ariadnes? Then arose a story that he had married a Russian princess, with eleven millions in her own right. (No one knew why she always had exactly eleven millions.) Then, another story was heard, that he had married a little actress out of the "Comédie Française." When the truth first came out, his friends were dumb with astonishment. They learned that Claude had married a Creole widow, of small fortune and exquisite beauty. Elaine was a very cultivated, refined woman, and she fascinated Claude by her gentle, womanly dignity.
Paul offered an easy chair to his step-father, and sat down facing him.
"Well, my dear Paul, you are still the same. You can not conceal your thought that my visit is a disagreeable surprise to you."
"Sir!"
"Never mind—I am not annoyed; but we must have an important conversation together—may be a long one. You were studying as I came in. Can you give me your attention for an hour or two?"
"My time is at your disposal, sir; and, since you have taken the trouble to come and visit me, I should be very impolite if I did not express myself as grateful for your kindness."