s of the situation, they went downstairs
and hung up the picture in its place. Hippolyte dined for the first time
with the Baroness, who, greatly overcome, and drowned in tears, must
needs embrace him.

In the evening the old emigre, the Baron de Rouville's old comrade, paid
the ladies a visit to announce that he had just been promoted to the
rank of vice-admiral. His voyages by land over Germany and Russia had
been counted as naval campaigns. On seeing the portrait he cordially
shook the painter's hand, and exclaimed, "By Gad! though my old hulk
does not deserve to be perpetuated, I would gladly give five hundred
pistoles to see myself as like as that is to my dear old Rouville."

At this hint the Baroness looked at her young friend and smiled, while
her face lighted up with an expression of sudden gratitude. Hippolyte
suspected that the old admiral wished to offer him the price of both
portraits while paying for his own. His pride as an artist, no less than
his jealousy perhaps, took offence at the thought, and he replied:

"Monsieur, if I were a portrait-painter I should not have done this
one."

The admiral bit his lip, and sat down to cards.

The painter remained near Adelaide, who proposed a dozen hands of
piquet, to which he agreed. As he played he observed in Madame de
Rouville an excitement over her game which surprised him. Never before
had the old Baroness manifested so ardent a desire to win, or so keen
a joy in fingering the old gentleman's gold pieces. During the evening
evil suspicions troubled Hippolyte's happiness, and filled him with
distrust. Could it be that Madame de Rouville lived by gambling? Was she
playing at this moment to pay off some debt, or under the pressure of
necessity? Perhaps she had not paid her rent. The old man seemed shrewd
enough not to allow his money to be taken with impunity. What interest
attracted him to this poverty-stricken house, he who was rich? Why,
when he had formerly been so familiar with Adelaide, had he given up the
rights he had acquired, and which were perhaps his due?

These involuntary reflections prompted him to watch the old man and
the Baroness, whose meaning looks and certain sidelong glances cast
at Adelaide displeased him. "Am I being duped?" was Hippolyte's last
idea--horrible, scathing, for he believed it just enough to be tortured
by it. He determined to stay after the departure of the two old men,
to confirm or dissipate his suspicions. He drew o