Andre’s confusion became greater. He would not tell the whole truth, for he would have died sooner than bring Sabine’s name into the discussion; and he could only see one way out of his difficulty.
“Suppose I say that I do not like your manner or appearance,” returned he disdainfully.
“Is it your wish to insult me, M. Andre?”
“As you choose to take it.”
M. de Breulh was not gifted with an immense stock of patience. He turned livid, and made a step forward; but his generous impulses restrained him, and it was in a voice broken by agitation that he said,—
“Accept my apologies, M. Andre; I fear that I have played a part unworthy of you and of myself. I ought to have given you my name at once. I know everything.”
“I do not comprehend you,” answered Andre in a glacial voice.
“Why doubt, then, if you do not understand? However, I have given you cause to do so. But, let me reassure you, Mademoiselle Sabine has spoken to me with the utmost frankness; and, if you still distrust me, let me tell you that this veiled picture is her portrait. I will say more,” continued De Breulh gravely, as the artist still kept silent; “yesterday, at Mademoiselle de Mussidan’s request, I withdrew from my position as a suitor for her hand.”
Andre had already been touched by De Breulh’s frank and open manner, and these last words entirely conquered him.
“I can never thank you enough,” began he.