CHAP. VI. Days and weeks passed away, dreary days and seventimes drearier weeks, and still no message from M. Biot. What circumstances, what delicate contingencies interposed between the theoretic plot and the furtherance of the execution, lie beyond my province and my power to relate. Perchance there were waverers, tardy of thorough conversion. Perchance there were traitors within the camp, whose dark removal was slow in order to be certain. Who can calculate the tortuous perchances of unshrinking iniquity!

Had any old friend visited me at this time, he would have found little to arouse any suspicion. I performed my duties mechanically. I took daily walks, sometimes alone, sometimes with my pupil; quiet, almost happy walks, save when now and again I caught on the opposite side of the street a glimpse of a seemingly careless, rather insignificant, green spectacled, tail-coated little man, ostentatiously sporting Galignani's Guide to Paris, whom nevertheless I knew instinctively, almost from my first glance at him, to be a spy upon my movements. How such a faithful disciple of Galignani was always circling in the plane of my eccentric orbit could bear no other explanation. Sometimes when, in the midst of a pleasant conversation with the boy whom I really loved, the hateful vision presented itself, I would start with horror as if I had just awakened to the consciousness of some loathsome reptile coiling itself round my heart. On such occasions Master Delby would grasp my hand, and beg to know if I were ill; and childhood and innocence would come back so freshly to me, that it required the utmost effort of pride to restrain my tears. Sometimes too at dinner, as one mess after another was lifted away from me untasted, Mrs. Delby would express her fear that I was not happy so far from home, and would kindly take blame to herself for not having provided suitable companionship for me. Once even, in the plenitude of consideration, they made a party on my account, inviting all whom they could think of as likely to

recommend themselves to my friendship. For all this and much more, God bless them!

Among the guests on this occasion was a young English artist, whom I had previously seen frequently at Mr. Delby's, and for whom I had conceived a strong liking, though neither of us had as yet made any advances in the way of personal friendship. On this night, however, I purposely threw myself a good deal in his way, and I soon found that he was equally inclined for more intimate acquaintance. Of course, considering his profession, and the city in which we were, it was impossible that we could sustain anything like a lengthened conversation without entering upon the subject of Art. On this theme Mr. Winslow (such was my new friend's name) was especially eloquent. One would have thought, while listening to him, that the reproduction of nature by the pencil and the chisel was the chief end of man, that utility was the mere handmaid of beauty, and art at once the originating cause and the final aim of human development. What were his particular views on the subject of schools and styles, however, have no influence on the thread of circumstances I am engaged in tracing,.but the following fragment of our conversation was unexpectedly fruitful of results. We had come down gradually from the aerial temples of Artworship to the discussion of a more material temple which was just then rising in the Champs Elysées to receive tributes of beauty from all parts of the civilized world, when Mr. Winslow struck off at a tangent with the seemingly irrelevant question :

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"By the way, do you know anything of Byzantine art ?"

"Of course," said I, "I have read a little on the subject; but I cannot say I have seen any specimens of it."

'Well, you may see a specimen of such picturesque daubing any day you like in St. Germain des Près. But that is nothing. What do you think of a resurrection of the school?"

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"Why," said I, "I have always thought that the word Byzantine, when applied to painting

"Pas si vite, Monsieur, I am not throwing out a proposal, but simply begging your attention to un fait accompli; begging your pardon at the same time for my French intercalations, to which we Parisian English get abominably addicted. What do you think of my having alighted by accident on a real Byzantine artist, who must have been in a fossilised state since the fifth or sixth century, and suddenly revivified by the rumour of the approaching Exposition des Beaux Arts?"

"It is a

singular circumstance, certainly," said I, rather tickled at the idea of the dry bones resuscitating at the breath of rumour. "And does he expect a niche in the temple?"

"The poor fellow came here decidedly with that expectation, and I verily believe that just for the curiosity of the thing the directing committee would have admitted his pictures, but he has altered his intentions entirely, and wouldn't now for the world exhibit them in public. And what do you think has caused him to change his mind?"

"Your advice perhaps."

"Not a bit of it. I do all I can to encourage him. The mere jewellery on one of his pictures would attract attention, if only for its singularity."

"Jewellery on his pictures!"

"Yes. Don't you know that Byzantine painting came to that? Their pictured saints have real necklaces, and positive silver halos." "Indeed; I was not aware of the fact. But what is it that has put such an effectual stopper on his ambition?""

"A walk through the Louvre! Poor fellow, when he saw what a pre-Adamite vestige he was, how he was as out of date as out of pocket, he got so bewildered that I had to drag him bodily out, and fortify him with a cup of coffee, (not forgetting the petit verre) to revive his sinking spirit. I then re-introduced him to the shrine of the arts, and became a child again in sympathy with his unsophisticated admiration. If you had only seen him before Murillo's Assumption of the Virgin! It was all I could do to keep him from falling down and worshipping.'

Is he a poor man, then?".

Has hardly a sou, and nothing convertible except his paintings and his jewellery, which, strange to say, he won't sell. I am giving him houseroom at present, but, to tell the plain unvarnished truth, not altogether from disinterested motives. How he found me out, I don't know. Probably I am only one of a number of artists he has called upon. But at any rate he came to me to inquire as to the steps necessary for the admission of his pictures to a place in the Beaux Arts.' I was very much struck with his appearance (his face

"Do you know anything of his history ?" "No. He is not at all communicative, and does not seem fond of being questioned. He says he is a Greek, by the bye, and that he worked his passage to Marseilles in an English ship, but that is all I know of him. Besides, it is rather an obstacle to our intercourse that he only knows as much English as could be learnt in a ship in a three or four weeks' voyage. He speaks Italian certainly, but I am ashamed to say I am only beginning to acquire that accomplishment, and cannot yet converse in it, As for his modern Greek-that is the blackness of darkness to me. But you must come and see him for yourself. I know you will be able to make more out of him than I can."

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"I am much obliged," I replied. "From what you tell me I feel quite interested in him." Well, suppose you look up to-morrow afternoon. Come about three, and you will get the end of the tableau vivant, after which we'll try to draw him out; and if but excuse me; I see Mrs. Delby wishes me to speak with her. No.-, Rue St Florentin, au second; just opposite Talleyrand's palace. You can't miss it."

A little more conversation with less interesting individuals, and the social meeting dissolved. And in continuation of the custom which began at the beginning, the evening and the morning were another day.

A

Punctually at three I was ringing the bell at the address indicated by Mr. Winslow. woman opened the door, and, after the manner of female domestics in general, wiped her hands in her apron, and looked interrogative. I inquired for Mr. Winslow.

"Monsieur is in his studio."

"Precisely where I wish to find him," said I. "But Monsieur is not like French artists. His studio is not a public room." "Is that you, Mr. Morley?" shouted a voice from within.

(Parenthetical discomfiture of the domestic). "Walk in. Here's a Byzantine go for you;" and immediately behind the voice came a smoking cap, a cloud of smoke, a dressing gown, and a hand.

"Come away. I forgot to tell the Fury you were coming. That's a seat, if you can see it. Confound me if I haven't converted my studio into a smoking-room through sheer vexation!"

Why, what's the matter? Where's the tableau vivant?"

"A dissolving view, my dear fellow. Gonegone like King James's bonnet 'the devil knows whither!'"'

"Gone for good, do you mean?"

"For good or for evil I can't say, but evi

dently gone for altogether. Come and gone like Melchizedek, without father or mother or offspring, except his paintings and this epistle in Italian, which I can't make out at all. But the fact of him giving the domestic half a franc, then bidding her good-bye, and walking off with his bit of jewellery, is sufficient evidence of the reality of his departure."

"When did this happen?"

"Yester-evening, just after I left this, for Mr. Delby's. He was out when I left, but came in, it seems, shortly afterwards, in a tremendous hurry, wrote this, and departed. But see what you can make of it.”

I took the letter, and translated it aloud. So far as I recollect, it was as follows:

"KIND AND GENEROUS FRIEND,-When you read this I shall be walking under the dark night, seeking the South. Either the chief joy of my life, or the saddest of deceptions, is awaiting me there. Forgive this seemingly uncourteous departure. I have known for two days that I would thus leave you, and nothing has detained me but the necessary delay incident to the procuring of a passport. Why then did I not inform you of this, or rather why did I not ask your permission? Because I feared your kindness. I know that, having guessed my poverty, you would have offered me money for the journey. But I have already received too much, and have nothing to offer in return but thanks and

breath should destroy it.

"Something tells me I'shall see you again, when I know myself better. But at present I am my own mystery. If my poor daubs are in your way, do not spare them. I have taken my little talisman with me. It is a part of myself.

"As you had not quite finished the face, I had a photograph of myself taken, which you can have by calling at Legros', Galerie de Valois, Palais Royal. I said you would call for it. I did not pay for it, simply because I had very little money, and I knew that it would be a gain to you to get your picture finished. I had some doubts as to whether this was right, but I thought it would be better than to leave you without any guide but memory in finishing your work.

"And now farewell. God reward you for your good deeds.

"IVERON STAVRONIKETA."

"Iveron Stav Stavroniketa! There's a name for you. Never knew it before. So that is the end of Iveron Stavroniketa. Poor lad, what can it all mean?"

Winslow was doing what he could to speak in a flippant style, the real state of the case being that his voice was so husky that he had difficulty in speaking at all. And it was too bad of a veteran smoker to pretend that he couldn't stand the tobacco smoke getting into his eyes, and finding it necessary to rub them in consequence. I noted his emotion, and gave it time to pass away before making any comments on the letter. I saw plainly from its tone that

he had been more kind to the stranger artist than his own version of the story had allowed me to suppose. I guessed the same from several drawings lying about the room, which were evidently traces of a course of study that the young man had been passing through, under the inspection of his benefactor.

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Well, what do you think of this?" said he at length. "Shall I go after him?” "With what motive?"

"To tell you the truth, I like the fellow; and only fancy him walking to goodness knows where, and perhaps starving on the road!"

"It is a melancholy picture, certainly, but I fear your search would be rather a wild goose chase. In the first place, you don't know where he is going, and in the second, he has got a day's start of you."

"Very true, what do you say then to advertising for him?"

"I do not see how that would do either. In what terms could you advertise? In what paper would you advertise that would be likely to reach him? Even supposing he would see it, and could read it, he would see through your good intentions, would bless you and proceed on his journey. I don't see what you can do unless you get up a false statement, and have him stopped by the Police, and that would hardly be a friendly act, since, not knowing his object, we cannot say how far delay might be fatal to it."

"What would you advise then ?"

would advise you to let him go on unmolested, "If my opinion is of any weight at all, I and turn up when he thinks proper. Possibly, indeed probably, secrecy is essential to him, and any interference might upset his plans, whatever they are. If he worked his way from Greece to Marseilles, and then surmounted the obstacles between that and this, with so little in his pocket as he seems to have had, he must be pretty well up in the science of endurance. I shouldn't, therefore, feel much doubt of his getting to his journey's end. Upon the whole, I think the best way will be to trust him to Providence."

"I daresay you are right, after all," said Winslow, after a pause, and pretending as he spoke that some more tobacco smoke had got into his eyes. "But what a pity to lose him just as I was getting to like him as a brother! and just too as he was beginning to show a few coruscations of the bright light that has been so long hidden within him! Look at that arm," continued he, holding up one of the drawings I had before noticed. "Think of that at a fourth lesson...... Such a good soul, too! How thoughtful of him to get the photograph! And clever too, by Jove, when you think that he had never heard of the art till I described it to him the day before!"

"That reminds me,' said I, "you have not shown me the portrait you were engaged on. Where is it?"

"I couldn't bear to look on it after I knew he had taken his departure, so I pushed it aside.

That is it, with its back to you, on the easel, in the corner there."

I turned the easel round, but the light fell full on the picture, and I saw nothing. Winslow put out his hand, and drew the window curtain towards him, and then I saw.

I do not think I started, or Winslow must have noticed and mentioned it; but it was well that my back was towards him, as otherwise he could not but have perceived my emotion. The head was the head of a man, but the features were Stephanie's. The individual lineaments and the general expression were alike faithfully exact. There was that delicate purity that had so captivated me when first I looked on her face; there, too, was that drooping of meekness in the eye, seemingly timid of its own brilliance, that at first sight had kindled my appreciation of beauty into the warmth of love. A darker complexion and a slight moustache preserved the face from absolute identity with that of Stephanie, but otherwise the resemblance was so perfect that I stood for a considerable time speechlessly astonished, and yet admiring. At length I found myself reasoning as to whether or not I should say anything to Winslow about the astounding coincidence; but the reflection of how much depended upon secrecy, and of the danger into which I might lead him by making him a sharer of the guilty knowledge, especially as his seemed rather an impulsive character, convinced me of the propriety of silence on that subject. But what could this mean? What a number of strange whirling possibilities danced to and fro along my puzzled brain during those few minutes! My last conversation with Stephanie took a new meaning and reality. There was something in all this, and I would have it out. But in the mean time Winslow interrupted me.

"You seem to find a good deal in it. It is something worth having, isn't it?”

"It is indeed; I never saw such beauty in a masculine face."

"That is precisely the point I lay stress upon; beauty and manliness most rarely combined. But there is another rather queer affair here. The picture that he had his talisman (as he calls it) hung upon is very like himself, though that of a female saint; and yet, so far as I could understand him, he painted it partly from memory, partly from imagination. Just look at these affairs......poor fellow! And yet there is a peculiar merit in that colouring of his."

As he said this, he turned my attention to a heap of paintings close by him, which he lifted one by one, with a smile of mingled pity and affection. Strangely stiff and quaint were the saints that he turned over one by one-traditional Johns, traditional Peters, saints militant and saints mendicant, nearly all of them without ankles, nearly all of them in the first or second position, all of them with feet to which the distinction of rights and lefts in the way of shoes would have been a matter of perfect indifference. The last he came to was that of the emale saint he had mentioned, and certainly

there was no mistaking its resemblance to the portrait of the stranger, and to Stephanie. Rigid, flat, and gaudy, there was yet a truthfulness about the face which none of the others possessed, and which made it plain that in this work at least he had not been guided by any of the dead models from which the others had been copied.

"Don't you think there is something rather striking in that picture ?" asked Winslow, after allowing me time to examine it. "I do."

"But you should have seen it with the talisman attached to it."

"What was this talisman like ?"

"A very pretty thing in its way. There was a necklace of apparent pearls, but I'm certain they were nothing but paste. However, attached to this was an indisputably precious cross. It was mainly of lapis lazuli framed with gold, with four real pearls hanging from the four extremities. In the centre was a very large diamond, encircled with pearls. I am no great judge of such things, but if real, the diamond must be worth a little fortune."

Fresh reason for puzzlement. Herr Dulcken and his main peculiarity occurred at once to my mind. But the first surprise had been so great that nothing short of a reversal of the laws of nature would have startled me. I welcomed this new coincidence as the commencing link in the chain of circumstances which would lead to the explanation of the first. I remembered also my promise to Herr Dulcken, and felt in duty bound to convey to him as soon as possible the particulars that had so curiously come to my knowledge. I asked Winslow a few more questions relative to his late guest, but could elicit no further information. I therefore as soon as possible gave the conversation a valedictory turn:

"When shall I see you again?" asked Winslow as I rose to go.

"You will be at Mr. Delby's before long, I suppose."

"I am not sure, really. I will be rather busy for the next few days at a portrait intended for the "Beaux Arts." The gentleman for whom I am going to undertake it is Secretary to the Minister of......, and his time is very uncertain, so that the job will involve a good deal of dancing about. But just look in any time you choose. I shall instruct the guardian demon that you are to have the free entrée of my studio at all hours."

I thanked him, and we parted.

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May I ask you," said the green-spectacled reptile, suddenly appearing as I emerged from the house," where the palace of Talleyrand is. Couldn't think of leaving Paris without seeing where the great man dwelt."

"That is it, just opposite," said I.

"Dear me! and he lived there, did he? Thank you, sir; thank you."

I shuddered at the vile intrusion, and the horrid thoughts it brought along with it. Was it possible that I had exposed Winslow to