his time, his purse, his advice, were all
at their service. But his whole soul was in
his art. Night and day, day and night, he
seemed to think of nothing but his painting.
In Rome he had been looked upon as mad,
for in the day he was not content with
remaining close at work in his master's studio,
but at night he invariably shut himself up in
an old half-ruined house, in the outskirts,
where none of his friends were ever invited,
and where no man ever penetrated, and no
women save an old nurse, who had known
him from a child. It was believed, with
considerable plausibility, that the artist had
a picture in hand, and that he passed his
night even in study. He rarely left this
retreat before mid-day, and generally returned
to his hermitage early, after a casual visit to
his lodgings, though he could not
occasionally refuse being present at large parties
given by his patrons.

On arriving in Venice he resumed his
former mode of life. He had an apartment
at the Palace Bembo; he took his meals
there, but at night-fall, when there was no
grand reception, he wrapped himself in his
cloak, put on his mask, and, drawing his
sword-hilt close to his hand, went forth. He
took a gondola until he reached a certain
narrow street, and then, gliding down that, he
disappeared in the gloom caused by the lofty
houses. No one noticed much, this mode
of life; he did his duty, he was polite, affable,
and respectful with his patron; he was
gallant with the ladies, but no more. He did
not make the slightest effort to win the
affections of those around him. Now all
this passed in general without much
observation.

Still, there was one person whom this wildness
and eccentricity of character—all that
has a stamp of originality is called eccentric
—caused to feel deep interest in him. The
Marquis had a daughter, who at sixteen
had been married, from interested motives,
to the old uncle of the Doge, now dead.
Clorinda was a beautiful widow of one and
twenty, who, rich, independent, of a
determined and thoughtful character, had made
up her mind to marry a second time, not to
please relations, but herself. From the first
she noticed Paolo favourably; he received
her friendly advances respectfully but coldly,
and rarely stopped his work to converse.
She asked for lessons to improve her slight
knowledge of painting; he gave them freely,
but without ever adding a single word to the
necessary observations of the interview. He
seemed absorbed in his art. One day
Clorinda stood behind him; she had been
watching him with patient attention for
an hour; she now came and took up her
quarters in the gallery all day, with her
attendant girl, reading or painting. Paolo
had not spoken one word during that hour.
Suddenly Cloriuda rose and uttered the
exclamation:

"How beautiful!"

"Is it not, signora.?"

"Most beautiful," she returned, astonished
both at the artist's manner, and the
enthusiasm with which he alluded to his own
creation.

"I am honoured by your approval," said
Paolo, laying down his palette and folding his
arms to gaze at the picture—a Cupid and
Psyche—with actual rapture.

It was the face of the woman—of the girl,
timidly impassioned and tender, filling the
air around with beauty—that had struck
Clorinda. With golden hair, that waved and
shone in the sun; with a white, small, but
exquisitely shaped forehead; with deep blue
eyes, fixed with admiring love on the
tormenting god; with cheeks on which lay so
softly the bloom of health that it seemed
ready to fade before the breath from the
painting; with a mouth and chin moulded
on some perfect Grecian statue, she thought
she had never seen anything so divine.

"Ah!" she said with a sigh, "you painters
are dreadful enemies of woman. Who would
look at reality after gazing on this glorious
ideal?"

"It is reality," replied the painter. "I paint
from memory."

"Impossible! You must have combined
the beauty of fifty girls in that exquisite
creation."

"No!" said the artist gravely; "that face
exists. I saw it in the mountains of Sicily.
I have often painted it before: never so
successfully."

"I would give the world to gaze on the
original," replied Clorinda. "I adore a
beautiful woman. It is God's greatest work of
art."

"It is, signora," said Paolo; and he turned
away to his work.

Women born in the climate of Italy, under
her deep blue sky, and in that air that
breathes of poetry, painting, music, and love,
are not guided by the same impulses and
feelings as in our colder and more practical
north. Clorinda did not wait for Paolo's
admiration; she loved him, and every day
added to her passion. His undoubted genius,
his intellectual brow, his noble features and
mien, had awakened her long pent-up and
sleeping affections. She was herself a woman
of superior mind, and had revelled in the
delights of Petrarch, Dante, Ariosto, and
Boccaccio. Now, she felt. How deeply, she
alone knew. But Zustana remained
obstinately insensible to all her charms: to her
friendship, and her condescending tone, as
well as to her intellect and beauty. He saw
all, save her love, and admired and respected
her much. But there was—at all events, at
present—no germ of rising passion in his
heart.

It was not long before she began to remark
his early departure from the palace, his
mysterious way of going, and the fact that he