“Of what country?” inquired Laura eagerly.
“I cannot inform the Signora. He speaks French, German, Italian, and very rarely English, equally well, but I do not think he is a fellow-countryman of mine. The other young artists who frequented B—elli’s studio would often tease me for sport, but the Signore was always kind, and would not permit them to do so when he was present. One day a pupil, who was finishing the drapery of a Madonna and Child, of which picture all the more important parts had been painted by B—elli himself, called to me to bring him some particular colour which he required—in my haste I stumbled and overthrew a flask of oil, which fell upon the not yet dry painting, entirely obliterating the features of the Madonna. Irritated at the difficulty into which I had plunged both him and myself, the student sprang up and seized me by the throat; in a moment the Signore Luigi interfered, and compressing the youth’s arm in his powerful grasp, forced him to release me.
“‘Remember, Carlo,’ he said gently, ‘Antonelli is an old man.’
“‘He has ruined himself and me!’ exclaimed the other, clasping his hands in despair; ‘B—elli will discharge him without doubt, and me he will refuse to instruct any longer.’
“‘Perhaps there is yet an alternative,’ urged the Signore Luigi; ‘B—elli will not return till to-morrow morning; much may be done in eighteen hours; I will strive to restore the face.’
“He immediately set to work; fortunately he paints with as much quickness as skill. When night drew near he dismissed us; through the long hours of darkness he laboured incessantly, pausing neither for sleep nor refreshment. With the earliest ray of dawn I was again at the studio: he was painting still, calm, earnest, grave, as is his wont, only appearing a little paler than usual; but such a work of art had grown beneath his hand, such a marvellous creation! the Madonna herself could not have appeared more lovely than was that heavenly face. It was completed ere B—elli arrived; when he beheld it he was amazed.
“What inspired hand has traced those features?” he demanded. The history was related to him. He once more examined the picture, then turning to the Signore, who stood near with folded arms, gazing on the other’s excitement with an air of cold indifference, he exclaimed in a tone of mingled admiration and rage, “Go, I can teach thee no longer; it is thou shouldst be the master.”
“The Signore took him at his word. He engaged these painting rooms, arranged with B—elli that I should accompany him, and is now the first painter in Italy as to talent, and when his execution is a little more perfected—ah! se ne saprà qualche cosa, we shall see how men will talk of him!”
“And the head was very lovely, was it? what style of face was it?” inquired Laura.
“How can I tell you? it was perfection, vi bisognava vederla,” was the enthusiastic reply. “Stay,” he continued, glancing at the clock, which now only wanted ten minutes to five; “I have an idea; there is yet time, but you must never relate that you have beheld it. Here, follow me;” and drawing out a key, he unlocked a door leading into a small apartment, comfortably though simply furnished, and fitted up with bookshelves somewhat after the fashion of an English study. “Ecco!” resumed Antonelli, “he has again sketched the head, but the subject is different. He will not allow me to place this picture in the studio, though it is such a gem I could sell it for a large price.”