“Perhaps,” said the Cardinal, doubtfully.  “And when are you going to join the corps?”

“In about an hour,” said Gouache, quietly.

And he kept his word.  But he had told no one, save the Cardinal, of his intention; and for a day or two, though he passed many acquaintances in the street, no one recognised Anastase Gouache in the handsome young soldier with his grey Turco uniform, a red sash round his slender waist, and a small kepi set jauntily upon one side.

It was one of the phenomena of those times.  Foreigners swarmed in Rome, and many of them joined the cosmopolitan corps—­gentlemen, noblemen, artists, men of the learned professions, adventurers, duellists driven from their country in a temporary exile, enthusiasts, strolling Irishmen, men of all sorts and conditions.  But, take them all in all, they were a fine set of fellows, who set no value whatever on their lives, and who, as a whole, fought for an idea, in the old crusading spirit.  There were many who, like Gouache, joined solely from conviction; and there were few instances indeed of any who, having joined, deserted.  It often happened that a stranger came to Rome for a mere visit, and at the end of a month surprised his friends by appearing in the grey uniform.  You had met him the night before at a ball in the ordinary garb of civilisation, covered with cotillon favours, waltzing like a madman; the next morning he entered the Cafe de Rome in a braided jacket open at the throat, and told you he was a soldier—­a private soldier, who touched his cap to every corporal of the French infantry, and was liable to be locked up for twenty-four hours if he was late to quarters.

Donna Tullia’s portrait was not quite finished, and Gouache had asked for one or two more sittings.  Three days after the artist had taken his great resolution, Madame Mayer and Del Ferice entered his studio.  He had had no difficulty in being at liberty at the hour of the sitting, and had merely exchanged his jacket for an old painting-coat, not taking the trouble to divest himself of the remainder of his uniform.

“Where have you been all this time?” asked Donna Tullia, as she lifted the curtain and entered the studio.  He had kept out of her way during the past few days.

“Good heavens, Gouache!” cried Del Ferice, starting back, as he caught sight of the artist’s grey trousers and yellow gaiters.  “What is the meaning of this comedy?”

“What?” asked Gouache, coolly.  Then, glancing at his legs, he answered, “Oh, nothing.  I have turned Zouave—­that is all.  Will you sit down, Donna Tullia?  I was waiting for you.”

“Turned Zouave!” exclaimed Madame Mayer and Del Ferice in a breath.  “Turned Zouave!”

“Well?” said Gouache, raising his eyebrows and enjoying their surprise.  “Well—­why not?”

Del Ferice struck a fine attitude, and, laying one hand upon Donna Tullia’s arm, whispered hoarsely in her ear—­