woman whose happiness you have destroyed. It is only when I am dead that you will learn what is written on my heart for you."
"Antoinette," the strong man's voice faltered, "Antoinette, am I never, then, to be forgiven?"
There was a momentary pause. Then the lady held out both her hands. "Philippe!"
"My heart! my soul! thou treasure of my life! thou star of my existence! Is it possible that a cloud should have interposed itself between thy path and mine?"
He took her in his arms. He pressed her to his breast. M. Berigny turned away. From his attitude it almost seemed as if the soldier—the man of ramrods and of bayonets!—wiped away a tear.
"Philippe! Take care, or you will derange my hat!"
"Antoinette! My beautiful, my own!"
"Philippe, do you not think you should apologize—take care, my friend, or you certainly will derange my hat!—to the stranger who has made immortal the face of the woman who loved you better than her life—my friend, take ca re!—who has made her appear on canvas so much more beautiful than she is in life?"
"No, Antoinette, that I will not have. It is impossible. Beauty such as yours is not to be rendered by a painter's brush!"
"If that be so, all the more reason why we should be grateful to Mr. Lovell for endeavouring the impossible."
The lady peeped at Mr Lovell with the quaintest malice in her eyes.
"Certainly, Antoinette, there is something in what you say. And, after all, it is a charming painting. I said, Victor, when I saw it, there can be no doubt, as a painting, it is charming—did I not say so?" M. Berigny inclined his head. With his handkerchief the Vicomte smoothed his moustache. He advanced towards Mr. Lovell: "Monsieur, a Frenchman—a true Frenchman—seldom errs. On those rare occasions on which he errs he is always willing, under proper conditions, to confess his error. Monsieur, I perceive that I have done you an injustice. For the injustice which I have done you—I desire to apologize."
Mr. Lovell smiled, He held out his hand.
"My dear fellow! There's nothing for which you need apologize."
The Vicomte grasped the artist's hand in both of his.
"My dear friend!" he cried.
"Philippe," whispered the lady into her husband's ear, "do you not think that you would like Mr. Lovell and his friend to favour us with their company at luncheon?"
The Vicomte seemed to think he would. They lunched together—all the five! Why not?
