“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.
“You will pardon me,” suggested he blandly, “but when one sees a portrait in a studio, the inference is that a sitting or two has taken place?”