“Perhaps you are an admirer of the lady it represents,” said she, peering shyly into his eyes. “The Count de Montalle has fallen in love with her and has borrowed the portrait from my father.”
“Ze picture—ah! monsieur, it is beautiful,” said the Count, who sat near them. “But ze lady—she sat for me long ago and I had ze honor myself to paint her portrait.”
He was a thin, wiry Frenchman, with small, black eyes, a forehead sloping to a bald crown, an aquiline nose and a pointed chin, adorned with an imperial. The face was almost mephistophelian in effect. He had painted her portrait! Was the man an impostor? I asked myself.
“The Count is an artist himself, you know,” said Miss Paddington.
“Yes—an artist?” asked Rayel in a half-incredulous tone. Then he looked inquiringly at the gentleman referred to, as if doubtful of his own understanding of the words he had repeated.
“Yes,” said the Count with emphasis. “For twenty years I have devote myself to ze art.”
“To what art, sir?” asked Rayel, in a tone suggesting doubt.
I was now thoroughly frightened at the serious turn of the dialogue. Was this “Count” a pretender and one of the many bogus noblemen of whom I had read? Rayel was sounding him, that was quite evident. I saw now the mistake I had made in bringing my cousin to such a place.
“Quel impudence!” exclaimed the insulted nobleman, under his breath.
“Forgive me, sir,” quickly answered Rayel, “I did not know it was wrong to ask you.”