her lips and my father's countenance assume an aspect of seriousness.
On this occasion, as he handed me the sealed letter, he cast a furtive look at the portrait; I involuntarily followed his example, and the idea came into my head that that powdered bacchante might be no other than the Marquise Aldobrandi. As I was beginning to have some insight into the things of this world, I drew all sorts of conclusions from my mother's manner and from that glance of my father's.
When I reached Rome, the first of my letters that I presented was the marquise's. She lived in a handsome palace near the place Saint Marc.
I handed my letter and my card to a servant in yellow livery, who ushered me into a large, dark and gloomy drawing-room, rather scantily furnished. In Rome, however, in all the palaces there are paintings by distinguished masters. This salon contained quite a number of such pictures, several of which were well worthy of attention.
The first that I remarked was a portrait of a woman, which seemed to me to be a Leonardo da Vinci. The richness of its frame and of the ebony easel upon which it stood showed conclusively enough that it was considered the gem of the collection. As the marquise was slow in making her appearance I had time to make a leisurely examination of it. I even carried it to a window so as to get a more favorable light on it. It was evidently a portrait and not a product of the imagination, for fancy never conceives such physiognomies as that: a beautiful woman, with rather thick lips, eyebrows that almost met, and an expression that was lofty and at the same time caressing. In the
