“And is that all you have done?” said Mervale, glancing disdainfully at the canvas.  “Is it for this that you have shut yourself out from the sunny days and moonlit nights of Naples?”

“While the fit was on me, I basked in a brighter sun, and imbibed the voluptuous luxury of a softer moon.”

“You own that the fit is over.  Well, that is some sign of returning sense.  After all, it is better to daub canvas for three days than make a fool of yourself for life.  This little siren?”

“Be dumb!  I hate to hear you name her.”

Mervale drew his chair nearer to Glyndon’s, thrust his hands deep in his breeches-pockets, stretched his legs, and was about to begin a serious strain of expostulation, when a knock was heard at the door, and Nicot, without waiting for leave, obtruded his ugly head.

“Good-day, mon cher confrere.  I wished to speak to you.  Hein! you have been at work, I see.  This is well,—­very well!  A bold outline,—­great freedom in that right hand.  But, hold! is the composition good?  You have not got the great pyramidal form.  Don’t you think, too, that you have lost the advantage of contrast in this figure; since the right leg is put forward, surely the right arm should be put back?  Peste! but that little finger is very fine!”

Mervale detested Nicot.  For all speculators, Utopians, alterers of the world, and wanderers from the high road, were equally hateful to him; but he could have hugged the Frenchman at that moment.  He saw in Glyndon’s expressive countenance all the weariness and disgust he endured.  After so wrapped a study, to be prated to about pyramidal forms and right arms and right legs, the accidence of the art, the whole conception to be overlooked, and the criticism to end in approval of the little finger!

“Oh,” said Glyndon, peevishly, throwing the cloth over his design, “enough of my poor performance.  What is it you have to say to me?”

“In the first place,” said Nicot, huddling himself together upon a stool,—­“in the first place, this Signor Zanoni,—­this second Cagliostro,—­who disputes my doctrines! (no doubt a spy of the man Capet) I am not vindictive; as Helvetius says, ’our errors arise from our passions.’  I keep mine in order; but it is virtuous to hate in the cause of mankind; I would I had the denouncing and the judging of Signor Zanoni at Paris.”  And Nicot’s small eyes shot fire, and he gnashed his teeth.

“Have you any new cause to hate him?”

“Yes,” said Nicot, fiercely.  “Yes, I hear he is courting the girl I mean to marry.”

“You!  Whom do you speak of?”

“The celebrated Pisani!  She is divinely handsome.  She would make my fortune in a republic.  And a republic we shall have before the year is out.”

Mervale rubbed his hands, and chuckled.  Glyndon coloured with rage and shame.

“Do you know the Signora Pisani?  Have you ever spoken to her?”