raised them with her question, and revealed in their sombre stillness a
gleam of feminine confidence which, for the moment, revived and illumined
her beauty. Poor Theobald! Whatever name he had given his passion, it
was still her fine eyes that had charmed him.

"Be contented, madam," I answered, gravely.

She dropped her eyes again and was silent. Then exhaling a full rich
sigh, as she gathered her shawl together--"He was a magnificent genius!"

I bowed, and we separated.

Passing through a narrow side street on my way back to my hotel, I
perceived above a doorway a sign which it seemed to me I had read before.
I suddenly remembered that it was identical with the superscription of a
card that I had carried for an hour in my waistcoat pocket. On the
threshold stood the ingenious artist whose claims to public favour were
thus distinctly signalised, smoking a pipe in the evening air, and giving
the finishing polish with a bit of rag to one of his inimitable
"combinations." I caught the expressive curl of a couple of tails. He
recognised me, removed his little red cap with a most obsequious bow, and
motioned me to enter his studio. I returned his salute and passed on,
vexed with the apparition. For a week afterwards, whenever I was seized
among the ruins of triumphant Rome with some peculiarly poignant memory
of Theobald's transcendent illusions and deplorable failure, I seemed to
hear a fantastic, impertinent murmur, "Cats and monkeys, monkeys and
cats; all human life there!"