Mrs. Althorpe made a sign to Mrs. Stanhope to be silent.
“Do you know whose portrait it is?” said Mrs. Althorpe.
“Do you then so much wish to find the original?”
“I cannot speak of these matters now. For the moment I am at war with _virtû_. It _may_ be divine—perhaps it is so. One thing I feel—the impotence of the artist. What he has succeeded in en-canvassing speaks only to my soul of a more radiant loveliness—that of motion, of thought, of heart—for which the pencil has no outline, the pallet no dye.”
“You are an enigma, and my query is unanswered. I will put it in another form. Is _she_ not beautiful?”
“How did you become possessed of the picture?”
“I saw it in the exhibition, and as they refused to sell it to me, I cut it out and brought it away.”
Mrs. Althorpe fell back into her chair, overpowered by irresistible laughter at the oddness of the incident, and the solemn gravity with which Nivernois stood eyeing the picture. An idea occurred to her by which she might give this matter a turn to her mind.
“I cannot imagine, of course,” said she, “whose portrait it is. But if you will come to my house to-night, I shall have some young ladies there, and it is possible that the fair original may be among them. We shall have _tableaux vivants_, and I think you will find it pleasant.”
“I will come with the utmost pleasure, even if the lady be not there.”
“And when I say that the party will be pleasant, I imply thereby an invitation to Mrs. Stanhope, who of course can make it so. But, Mr. Nivernois, are you not afraid that the officers of justice will be after you for abstracting that picture?”
“Oh! I am only taking it to be copied; after that I shall take it back.”
“Well! put up your roll then, and we will go.”
When they had walked some distance, Mrs. Althorpe took leave of him, and bent her steps again towards Mrs. Stanhope’s.
In the evening, Mr. Nivernois went to Mrs. Althorpe’s. The _tableaux_ were exhibited in the hall: the company stood at one end, and a curtain was drawn at the other, behind which was the frame. They went off with great effect. The first was the Magdalen of Corregio, a recumbent figure, “with loose hair and lifted eye,” the light thrown strongly upon a volume open before her. The second and third were scenes from the Corsair. While the fourth was preparing, Mr. Nivernois got engaged in explaining to a person near him a new method by which _tableaux_ might be presented in a much more striking manner, and he did not take notice of the rising of the curtain, until he heard several of the company exclaiming, “Beautiful!”—“how beautiful!” He turned and beheld the very picture which he had that day been contemplating: the glorious features, the blue dress, the veil falling over the back, the head turned round over the shoulder. He stepped a little forward, and his keen eye caught the glance of the performer; there was a momentary wavering, a blush, the face was turned aside, and the curtain fell. Nivernois passed into a room at the side, and hastened towards the place where the pictures were shown. He found three or four persons there engaged in arranging the next performance. A door stood open in the rear leading into a large and very elegant garden. He looked out, and through the bright moonlight saw among the bushes a female figure. He rushed forth; the lady fled, but soon stopped by the limits of the ground, turned her head round, and again presented the living portrait of the morning. It was Miss Stanhope. He seized her hand in both of his.
