It is not wonderful then if this man rose from that seat another being. But the picture was still the centre and object of his thoughts. Rare indeed, and transcendant was the beauty of that countenance: a depth of passion, and an elevation of thought were characterized upon it, which fired the imagination of the youth who gazed. He thought that he had seen those features before; but where, and how? He had a faint impression that Miss Stanhope might be the person. But in fact, so little had he been interested in woman before, that he had scarce paid any attention to her appearance—had no distinct remembrance of her face. Supposing that the voice which he had heard had proceeded from the original of the picture, and that it indicated that he was loved by her, he was deeply anxious to discover who it was.
He pulled a bell which he discovered near the door, and there issued forth in reply from a small door, an old gray-haired man, very tall, and bent like a crozier.
“What picture is this?” said Nivernois.
“Why, it’s a portrait,” said the old man, with a look of great contempt at the simplicity of the question.
From the tone in which he shouted, it seemed that he added deafness to his other virtues.
“Of whom?”
“A lady,” roared the other, with increased scorn.
“True; but of what lady is it the portrait?”
“Oh, I don’t know;” and he began to hobble back to his cage.
“Is it for sale?”