“Siamo traditi—­we are betrayed!” he said.  Whereupon Donna Tullia turned a little pale.

“Betrayed!” she repeated, “and by Gouache!”

Gouache laughed, as he drew out the battered old carved chair on which Madame Mayer was accustomed to sit when he painted.

“Calm yourself, Madame,” he said.  “I have not the least intention of betraying you.  I have made a counter-revolution—­but I am perfectly frank.  I will not tell of the ferocious deeds I have heard discussed.”

Del Ferice scowled and drew back, partly acting, partly in earnest.  It lay in his schemes to make Donna Tullia believe herself involved in a genuine plot, and from this point of view he felt that he must pretend the greatest horror and surprise.  On the other hand, he knew that Gouache had been painting the Cardinal’s portrait, and guessed that the statesman had acquired a strong influence over the artist’s mind—­an influence which was already showing itself in a way that looked dangerous.  It had never struck him until quite lately that Anastase, a republican by descent and conviction, could suddenly step into the reactionary camp.

“Pardon me, Donna Tullia,” said Ugo, in serious tones, “pardon me—­but I think we should do well to leave Monsieur Gouache to the contemplation of his new career.  This is no place for us—­the company of traitors—­”

“Look here, Del Ferice,” said Gouache, suddenly going up to him and looking him in the face,—­“do you seriously believe that anything you have ever said, in this room is worth betraying? or, if you do, do you really think that I would betray it?”

“Bah!” exclaimed Donna Tullia, interposing, “it is nonsense!  Gouache is a gentleman, of course—­and besides, I mean to have my portrait, politics or no politics.”

With this round statement Donna Tullia sat down, and Del Ferice had no choice but to follow her example.  He was profoundly disgusted, but he saw at a glance that it would be hopeless to attempt to dissuade Madame Mayer when she had once made up her mind.

“And now you can tell us all about it,” said Donna Tullia.  “What, in the name of all that is senseless, has induced you to join the Zouaves?  It really makes me very nervous to see you.”

“That lends poetry to your expression,” interrupted Gouache.  “I wish you were always nervous.  You really want to know why I am a Zouave?  It is very simple.  You must know that I always follow my impulses.”

“Impulses!” ejaculated Del Ferice, moodily.

“Yes; because my impulses are always good,—­whereas when I reflect much, my judgment is always bad.  I felt a strong impulse to wear the grey uniform, so I walked into the recruiting office and wrote my name down.”

“I feel a strong impulse to walk out of your studio, Monsieur Gouache,” said Donna Tullia, with a rather nervous laugh.

“Then allow me to tell you that, whereas my impulses are good, yours are not,” replied Anastase, quietly painting.  “Because I have a new dress—­”