"Look, there comes Modeste, and there is the lover,
but he has a pal with him to-night. Why, what can she be telling him? He
seems quite overcome."

Mascarin divined the truth at once, and found that it would be a
difficult task to interfere with the love of a man who displayed so much
intensity of feeling.

"Then," remarked Mascarin, savagely, "that great booby, staggering about
on his friend's arm, is your young lady's lover?"

"Just so, sir."

"Then we must find out who he is."

Florestan put on a crafty air, and replied in gentle accents.

"The day before yesterday, as I was smoking my pipe outside, I saw this
young bantam swaggering down the street--not but what he seemed rather
crestfallen; but I knew the reason for that, and should look just as
much in the dumps if my young woman was laid up. I thought, as I had
nothing to do, I might as well see who he was and where he lived; so,
sticking my hands in my pockets, after him I sloped. He walked such a
long way, that I got precious sick of my job, but at last I ran him
to earth in a house. I went straight up to the lodge, and showed the
portress my tobacco pouch, and said, 'I picked up this; I think that the
gentleman who has just gone in dropped it. Do you know him?' 'Of course
I do,' said she. 'He is a painter; lives on the fourth floor; and his
name is M. Andre.'"

"Was the house in the Rue de la Tour d'Auvergne?" broke in Mascarin.

"You are right, sir," returned the man, taken a little aback. "It seems,
sir, that you are better informed than I am."

Mascarin did not notice the man's surprise, but he was struck with the
strange persistency with which this young man seemed to cross his plans,
for he found that the acquaintance of Rose and the lover of Mademoiselle
de Mussidan were one and the same person, and he had a presentiment that
he would in some way prove a hindrance to his plans.

The astute Mascarin concentrated all his attention upon Andre.

The latter said something to Modeste, which caused that young woman to
raise her hands to heaven, as though in alarm.

"But who is the other?" asked he,--"the fellow that looks like an
Englishman?"

"Do you not know?" returned the lackey. "Why, that is M. de
Breulh-Faverlay."

"What, the man who was to marry Sabine?"

"Certainly."

Mascarin was not easily disconcerted, but this time a blasphemous oath
burst from his lips.

"Do you mean," said he, "that De Breulh and this painter are friends?"