with his passenger.

Arriving at the shoemaker's shop, Blanka was received by a little man of
lively bearing and a quick, intelligent expression.

"Pst! No words needed," was his greeting. "I know all about it. I am
Citizen Scalcagnato, _il calzolajo_. Take my arm, citizeness. Cittadino
Adorjano lives on the top floor, and the stairs are a trifle steep. He
is out at present, but his studio is open to you."

The young lady was reassured. The honest cobbler evidently did not
suspect her of coming to meet his tenant by appointment, but took her
for an artist friend on a professional visit, or perhaps a customer come
to buy a picture. The shoemaker took the artist's place, in the latter's
absence, and sold his paintings for him. Perhaps, too, the artist sold
his landlord's shoes when that worthy was abroad.

Thus it was that Blanka took the offered arm without a misgiving, and
suffered the cobbler to lead her up the steep stairway to the little
attic chamber that served her friend for both sleeping-room and studio.
It was as neat as wax, and as light and airy as any painter could
desire. A large bow-window admitted the free light of heaven and at the
same time afforded a fine view of the Palatine Hill. Leaning for a
moment against the window-sill, in mute admiration of the prospect
before her, the princess thought how happy a woman might be with this
view to greet her eyes every day, while a husband who worshipped her and
was worshipped by her worked at her side--or, rather, not _worked_, but
_created_. It was a picture far more alluring than any that the Cagliari
palace had to offer.

"Pst!" the cobbler interrupted her musing; "come and let me show you the
portrait."

So saying, he conducted her to an easel on which rested a veiled
picture, which he uncovered with an air of pride and satisfaction.

The feeling of rapture that took possession of Blanka at sight of her
own portrait was owing, not to the fact that it was her
likeness,--radiant though that likeness was with youth and beauty and
all the charm of an ideal creation,--but to the thought that _he_ had
painted it.

"The price is thirty-three million, three hundred and thirty-three
thousand, three hundred and thirty-three _scudi_, and not a _soldo_
less!" announced the shoemaker, with a broad smile. Then he laid his
fingers on his lips. "Pst! Not a word! I know all. It will be all
right."

Blanka saw now that he had recognised her the moment she entered hi