for
such a mark of confidence."

Andre went to the picture, but as he touched the curtain he turned
quickly towards his visitor.

"No," said he, "I can no longer continue this farce; it is unworthy of
me."

M. de Mussidan turned pale.

"I am about to see Sabine de Mussidan's portrait. Draw the curtain."

Andre obeyed, and for a moment the Count stood entranced before the work
of genius that met his eyes.

"It is she!" said the father. "Her very smile; the same soft light in
her eyes. It is exquisite!"

Misfortune is a harsh teacher; some weeks ago he would have smiled
superciliously at the mere idea of granting his daughter's hand to a
struggling artist, for then he thought only of M. de Breulh, but now
he would have esteemed it a precious boon had he been allowed to choose
Andre as Sabine's husband. But Henri de Croisenois stood in the way,
and as this idea flashed across the Count's mind he gave a perceptible
start. He was sure from the excessive calmness of the young man that he
must be well acquainted with all recent events. He asked the question,
and Andre, in the most open manner, told him all he knew. The generosity
of M. de Breulh, the kindness of Madame Bois Arden, his suspicions, his
inquiries, his projects, and his hopes. M. de Mussidan gazed once more
upon his daughter's portrait, and then taking the hand of the young
painter, said,--

"M. Andre, if ever we can free ourselves from those miscreants, whose
daggers are pointed at our hearts, Sabine shall be your wife."

CHAPTER XXXI.

GASTON'S DILEMMA.

Yes, Sabine might yet be his, but between the lovers stood the forms of
Croisenois and his associates. But now he felt strong enough to contend
with them all.

"To work!" said he, "to work!"

Just then, however, he heard a sound of ringing laughter outside his
door. He could distinguish a woman's voice, and also a man's, speaking
in high, shrill tones. All at once his door burst open, and a hurricane
of silks, velvets, feathers, and lace whirled in. With extreme surprise,
the young artist recognized the beautiful features of Rose, _alias_ Zora
de Chantemille. Gaston de Gandelu followed her, and at once began,--

"Here we are," said he, "all right again. Did you expect to see us?"

"Not in the least."

"Ah! well, it is a little surprise of the governor's. On my word, I
really will be a dutiful son for the future. To-day, the good old boy
came into my room, and said, 'This morning I took