"What is the meaning of this illumination?" asked Theodore in glad
tones, as he came into her room.

Augustine skilfully seized the auspicious moment; she threw herself
into her husband's arms, and pointed to the portrait. The artist stood
rigid as a rock, and his eyes turned alternately on Augustine, on the
accusing dress. The frightened wife, half-dead, as she watched her
husband's changeful brow--that terrible brow--saw the expressive
furrows gathering like clouds; then she felt her blood curdling in her
veins when, with a glaring look, and in a deep hollow voice, he began
to question her:

"Where did you find that picture?"

"The Duchess de Carigliano returned it to me."

"You asked her for it?"

"I did not know that she had it."

The gentleness, or rather the exquisite sweetness of this angel's
voice, might have touched a cannibal, but not an artist in the
clutches of wounded vanity.

"It is worthy of her!" exclaimed the painter in a voice of thunder. "I
will be avenged!" he cried, striding up and down the room. "She shall
die of shame; I will paint her! Yes, I will paint her as Messalina
stealing out at night from the palace of Claudius."

"Theodore!" said a faint voice.