The question was settled; settled the wrong way. He hurried on across Canal Street. Marguerite had not been, as he had construed the inaccurate statement, in the city for two weeks. Resemblances need delude him no longer. He went on into Carondelet Street and was drawing near the door and stairway leading to his friend’s studio and his own little workroom above it, when suddenly from that very stairway and door issued she whom, alas! he might now no longer mistake for Marguerite, yet who, none the less for lessening hope, held him captive.
CHAPTER XIV.
WHO SHE WAS.
For a moment somewhat more than her profile shone upon Claude’s bewildered gaze.
“I shall see her eye to eye at last!” shouted his heart within: but the next moment she turned away, and with two companions who came across the same threshold, moved up the street, and, at the nearest corner, vanished. Her companions were the American lady and the artist. Claude wheeled, and hurried to pass around the square in the opposite direction, and, as he reached the middle of its third side, saw the artist hand them into the street-car, lift his hat, and return towards the studio. The two men met at the foot of the stairs. The Spaniard’s countenance betrayed a restrained elation.
“You goin’ see a picture now,” he said, in a modestly triumphant tone. “Come in,” he added, as Claude would have passed the studio door.
They went in together. The Spaniard talked; Claude scarcely spoke. I cannot repeat the conversation literally, but the facts are these: A few evenings before, the artist had been one of the guests at a musical party given by a lady whose name he did not mention. He happened—he modestly believed it accidental—to be seated beside the hostess, when a young lady—“jung Creole la-thy,” he called her—who was spending a few days with her, played the violin. The Spaniard’s delicate propriety left her also nameless; but he explained that, as he understood, she was from the Teche. She played charmingly—“for an amateur,” he qualified: but what had struck him more than the music was her beauty, her figure, her picturesque grace. And when he confessed his delight in these, his hostess, seemingly on the inspiration of the moment, said:
“Paint her picture! Paint her just so! I’ll give you the order. Not a mere portrait—a picture.” And he had agreed, and the “jung” lady had consented. The two had but just now left the studio. To-morrow a servant would bring violin, music-rack, etc.; the ladies would follow, and then—