Louis now rapidly recovered, and in a short time was able to resume his duties. During his first interview with Madame Evelini, she related the scene that had taken place between her and Isadore.
"His motive in keeping me out was certainly other than the physician's commands," she said. "In fact, my dear Louis, I should not be surprised if your Isadore should turn out to be a female in disguise. His conduct savors so strongly of jealousy that I more than half suspect him. Some fiery Italian might have conceived a romantic passion for you, and taken this means of following you. Those hot-blooded Venetians will do such things sometimes."
The words were lightly spoken, but they set Louis to thinking. What if they were true? A number of things, trifling in themselves, rushed on his mind, tending to confirm this opinion. He started up, seized his hat, bade madame a hasty farewell, and started for home, fully resolved to discover immediately whether or not her words were true.
On entering, he found Isadore standing with folded arms, gazing with eyes almost fiendish with hate upon a picture on the easel. It was the portrait of Celeste as a child, standing as when he first beheld her caressing her wounded bird. No words can describe the look of fierce hatred with which the boy regarded it.
"Well, Isadore, you seem struck by that painting. Did you ever see a sweeter face?" asked Louis, pointing to Celeste, but keeping his eyes fixed steadily on the face of the boy.
"Do you love her?" asked Isadore, hoarsely, without looking up.
"Yes, with my whole heart and soul!" replied Louis, fervently.
"Ungrateful wretch!" cried the youth, in a voice of intense passion; and lifting his head, he disclosed a face so pale, and eyes so full of fire, that Louis started back. "Was it for this that I left home, and country, and friends, that I assumed a disguise like this to follow you? Was it for such a turn as this I risked my life for yours? Was it for words like these I cast aside my pride, and became your menial? Was it not enough for you to call on her unceasingly during your delirium—she who feared the opinion of the world more than she loved you—while I, who braved disgrace and death for your sake, was unnamed and forgotten? Look on me, most ungrateful of men," he continued, almost with a shriek. "Look at me; and say, do you yet know me?"
He dashed his cap to the ground, and with features convulsed with contending passions, stood before him. Louis looked, turned deadly pale, and exclaimed, in a voice of utter surprise:
"Merciful heaven! Minnette!"