whose other name Paul was unacquainted, was an artist, and, in addition, was an ornamental sculptor, and executed those wonderful decorations on the outside of houses in which builders delight.  The trade is not a pleasant one, for it necessitates working at dizzy heights, on scaffolds that vibrate with every footstep, and exposes you to the heat of summer and the frosts of winter.  The business, however, is well paid, and Andre got a good price for his stone figures and wreaths.  But all the money he earned went in the study of the painter’s art, which was the secret desire of his soul.  He had taken a studio, and twice his pictures had been exhibited at the Salon, and orders began to come in.  Many of his brother artists predicted a glorious future for him.  When the cab stopped, Paul threw the fare to the driver, and asked the clean-looking portress, who was polishing the brasswork on the door, if M. Andre was at home.

“He is, sir,” replied the old woman, adding, with much volubility, “and you are likely to find him in, for he has so much work; but he is such a good and quiet young man, and so regular in his habits!  I don’t believe he owes a penny in the world; and as for drink, why he is a perfect Anchorite.  Then he has very few acquaintances,—­one young lady, whose face for a month past I have tried to see, but failed, because she wears a veil, comes to see him, accompanied by her maid.”

“Good heavens, woman!” cried Paul impatiently, “will you tell me where to find M. Andre?”

“Fourth floor, first door to the right,” answered the portress, angry at being interrupted; and as Paul ran up the stairs, she muttered, “A young chap with no manners, taking the words out of a body’s mouth like that!  Next time he comes, I’ll serve him out somehow.”

Paul found the door, with a card with the word “Andre” marked upon it nailed up, and rapped on the panel.  He heard the sound of a piece of furniture being moved, and the jingle of rings being passed along a rod; then a clear, youthful voice answered, “Come in!”

Paul entered, and found himself in a large, airy room, lighted by a skylight, and exquisitely clean and orderly.  Sketches and drawings were suspended on the walls; there was a handsome carpet from Tunis, and a comfortable lounge; a mirror in a carved frame, which would have gladdened the heart of a connoisseur, stood upon the mantelpiece.  An easel with a picture upon it, covered with a green baize curtain, stood in one corner.  The young painter was in the centre of his studio, brush and palette in hand.  He was a dark, handsome young man, well built and proportioned, with close-cut hair, and a curling beard flowing down over his chest.  His face was full of expression, and the energy and vigor imprinted upon it formed a marked contrast to the appearance of Mascarin’s protege.  Paul noticed that he did not wear the usual painter’s blouse, but was carefully dressed in the prevailing fashion.  As soon as he recognized Paul, Andre came forward with extended hand.  “Ah,” said he, “I am pleased to see you, for I often wondered what had become of you.”