A thoroughly artistic atmosphere was that of Sabrau's studio. There was not a picture nor a picture frame, a bronze nor a bit of china that did not attract attention. Uniformity had been carefully avoided—all tints, all forms, blended into one original whole.

Goutran had arranged the place with his own hands for the fÊte, which, as Goutran said, had a double aim. He wished not only to return the princely hospitality he had received, but to make of the affair a private exhibition of the works of his young friends; he himself only hung his gipsy. Rachel Marstens, the great actress, assisted by Emma Bruges, consented to do the honors. Every artistic celebrity accepted his invitations. Even the critics came, and were amiable.

Comte Velleni was among the earliest arrivals. He was a fine-looking old man, and extremely courteous to all the young artists, and as he was very wealthy, his compliments on their work excited many hopes. He was not alone. He was accompanied by his secretary, by whom the young painters were not favorably impressed. His eyes were deep-set under bushy eyebrows, his hair and beard were black as jet.

"A bad looking fellow!" murmured one to another.

The age of this individual was uncertain—he might have been fifty. A deep scar ran across one cheek. His expression was crafty, his eyes shifting, and he kept in the background.

There was a little stir when Monsieur and Mademoiselle de Laisangy were announced, for that same morning the official journal of the empire had announced the opening of the Banque de Credit Imperial, with a capital of sixty million. Monsieur de Laisangy was the director of this new bank.

Goutran advanced to meet this gentleman with an eagerness that would have marred the interest which we feel in him had it not been explained by the presence of the charming daughter of the banker, Carmen de Laisangy.

Goutran had painted Carmen's portrait, which had excited much commendation at the Salon, to which fact was probably due the presence of the banker and his daughter at this soirÉe.

Carmen had no mother, and she had been brought up somewhat in the American style, but as she was very beautiful and had committed none but the most trifling indiscretions, many things were overlooked in her which in other girls would not have been tolerated.

The banker was an old man and excessively thin, he held himself with English stiffness; a muscular contraction affected his upper lip. He stood well at Court. He had, it was said, made large loans at the time of the coup d'etat in '51, and Bonaparte's accomplices called him their friend.

"I am deeply indebted to you, Mademoiselle," said Goutran, "for your acceptance of an invitation which I was almost afraid to send."

Carmen was very pretty, as we have said. Her dress was cut very low, and revealed too much of an admirably modelled bust. Her manner was not that of a young girl, it was more assured. But she was charming.

She laughed, and said, in reply, "You are my especial artist, you know, and history tells us that even queens visit their painters—"

"For example, the Duchess of Ferrara!" said a young man to a friend, in a low voice. He had caught her words as he passed, and hazarded this allusion, somewhat too broad, perhaps, to the visit paid by the Duchess to Titian, when she was painted in the costume of mother Eve. He undoubtedly supposed that the young lady would not understand his remark, and yet it was plain that she with difficulty restrained a laugh.

She led Goutran to the picture gallery. "I am told," she said, "that you have two great surprises for your guests, to-night."

"Oh! no; only one. You have heard of Jane Zeld, that marvelous bird who has come to us from Finland, Lapland, or some other place—we will call it Russia?"

"But I was told that she had refused to sing in Paris at present—declined even to go to CompiÈgne."

"Yes, but for you," and Goutran bowed low, "I have obtained what was refused to an Emperor!"

He pressed Carmen's arm against his own, as he spoke.

The girl turned and looked him full in the face for a moment. "Take me to my father," she said.

Was it fancy, or did she emphasize the two words, "my father," in an odd sort of way?

As in silence he obeyed her request, which though brief, was by no means stern, a singular scene was taking place.

Signor Fagiano, who talked little, was wandering about through the salons. Suddenly he found himself face to face with Monsieur de Laisangy.

Signor Fagiano started back, and half covered his face with his hand, but in turning to make good his retreat, he half stumbled and fell.

The banker instinctively extended his hand to assist him. Fagiano bowed low as he recovered himself, and went into another room.

There was certainly nothing very remarkable in this incident, but Carmen started and instantly hastened to the side of the banker, who seemed calmly indifferent to what had taken place. Seeing this, her anxiety, if she felt any, was dissipated, and she began to talk to Goutran.

At this moment the footman announced two names: "Mademoiselle Jane Zeld!" "The Vicomte de Monte-Cristo!"

"You see, I did have two surprises for you," said Goutran.

But suddenly he exclaimed, "My dear Monsieur de Laisangy, you are ill, I fear—"

"No, no," stammered the banker, "but it is very warm here, and I will go out on the terrace a while, if you will permit me."

He left his daughter, who seemed to attach little importance to this sudden indisposition of her father's.

Goutran went forward to receive his new guests. A murmur of admiration greeted the lady—Jane Zeld, the cantatrice.

She was tall and slender, and dressed in black tulle with crimson roses. She advanced with a smile on her lips. She was young, not more than twenty-two, with dark hair raised over her brow like a diadem and falling at the back of her head in loose braids. Her complexion was clear but pale, her eyes were almond-shaped with long lashes and had a singular fixity of expression.

Who was she? No one knew. She had appeared on the stage of public life in a singular way. There had been a fire about two months before at one of the theatres, and a musical evening had been organized for the benefit of the victims.

Society, which likes amusements and is willing to be benevolent at the same time, had responded to the appeal, and on the evening of the performance the hall was crowded. The principal attraction was the return to public life of a tenor, who had had a fit of the sulks and had deserted the stage. He had promised to sing with the Diva a celebrated duet. When the audience had assembled a message arrived at the theatre. The Diva was ill, or pretended to be so, and now, at the last moment, announced that it was impossible to appear.

This was terrible. The tenor was implored to sing alone, but he positively refused, and the non-appearance of the two stars made the affair an utter fiasco. Artists and journalists, director and secretaries assembled in the foyer—all talked together in their excitement. The tenor, half lying on a couch, caressed his black beard, while he listened with nonchalance to the entreaties addressed to him. But the moment was rapidly approaching when the fatal announcement must be made to the audience.

Presently a voice began to sing the jewel song from Faust. The singer was at the piano in the foyer, but was so enveloped in black lace that she could hardly be seen. Her voice was so good, her method so perfect, that every one listened in delight. Even the tenor, for he was a thorough musician, was completely carried away.

The lady finished the song, then rising from her seat she stood leaning against the piano without the smallest embarrassment.

The tenor went forward. "Madame," he said, "do you know the duet we were about to sing?"

The singer reseated herself at the piano and playing a prelude, sang two or three bars with exquisite expression.

"Madame," began the tenor.

"Mademoiselle," corrected the lady, raising her vail.

"You have a hundred times more talent than Mademoiselle X."

"We will not talk of her, and she must always remain in ignorance of this defection of one of her greatest admirers."

But the feeling against the prima donna was that day of excessive bitterness, and every one agreed with the tenor.

"Will you sing with me?" asked the tenor.

The lady answered, "As this fÊte is for charity, I cannot decline."

The director then said:

"We will express our thanks later, dear lady; please give me your name that I may make the announcement."

The tenor lifted his head.

"I will lead the lady on, and that is quite enough."

When the public saw that the singer was not the celebrated X. they were for a moment confounded, but the tenor was the guaranty, he could not be mistaken. The duet began; never had the tenor sang so well.

The unknown was a thorough artist. She looked like a statue of Passion, as she stood at the piano, and her triumph was so great that it was the talk of Paris for three days. But the strangest part of all was, that after receiving this ovation she disappeared. The reporters could not find her. Finally one of them, more indefatigable than the others, discovered her in a small hÔtel on the Champs ElysÉes. Her name was inscribed as Jane Zeld, from Russia, and she was accompanied by an intendant named Maslenes.

The reporter, armed with this information, proceeded to concoct a legend. She belonged, he said, to a great family in Russia. She had left her home "for reasons which the Journal was not at liberty to reveal."

For a fortnight, managers and directors were on the qui vive, but as a poetical personage of importance took this time to commit suicide, the name of Jane Zeld was gradually forgotten.

When two days before his fÊte, Goutran received a perfumed note in which Jane offered to sing for him, he was charmed.

The lady entered the room, followed at some little distance by Esperance, who had conquered his timidity and come. His father had bidden him "live," and the young man felt that he was in a measure obeying his order when he drove to Goutran's studio, where he arrived just in time to assist the fair stranger from her carriage.

The horizon of Paris is so vast that there is always room for a new star. And Jane Zeld, even if she had not shrouded herself in so much mystery, and without a voice, would have been conspicuous for her beauty, which was of aristocratic delicacy. Her lips were like pomegranate flowers in their rich red. Her bust was discreetly vailed, her arms were beautifully rounded, firm and white, and terminated in exquisite hands.

Goutran had begged Esperance to come to his fÊte. The Vicomte did so, and Goutran seemed to forget his presence. Only a few curious glances were turned upon him. All eyes were watching Jane who, too, seemed to forget the person who had so gallantly assisted her from her carriage. Every one was eager for an introduction to this queen of the evening, and when she went to the piano a great hush fell upon the room. She sang melodies, Slavonic airs, that had never before been heard in Paris, and then an aria of a great composer, and when she concluded there was immense applause.

"Do you know," said a voice, in the ear of the host, "that you are a most eccentric person!"

The painter colored deeply, for it was Carmen who spoke. Goutran had indeed behaved very strangely to her. He apologized in some confusion, his duties as host, his many interruptions, etc.

"I forgive you," answered Carmen, "on one condition."

"Any thing!"

"Oh! I shall only ask a trifle. Can you spare me a few moments?"

"Certainly."

"Then give me your arm, and take me out on the terrace."

"The terrace! How did you know that I had a terrace?" asked Goutran, astonished.

"Pray do not be uneasy. I never visited your studio in your absence. I heard Monsieur Laisangy say, just now, that he would go to the terrace for a little fresh air."

"Yes," said Goutran, "your father came one day to talk about your portrait, and I showed him the place which I dignify with the name of terrace. It is but a small square of zinc, on which a few sickly plants are withering. It was not worthy to be shown to my friends."

"But you will make an exception in my favor?"

"Most assuredly."

They crossed the studio. Goutran started. He had seen Esperance leaning against a door, pale and absorbed in thought. The liquid strains of Jane's voice had reached him here, softer and sweeter than ever.

"Will you allow me to present to you the Vicomte de Monte-Cristo?" asked Goutran.

"Is he the son of the celebrated Count?" Carmen replied, looking at the young man with curiosity.

"Precisely, and one of the best fellows in the world."

"Is that the reason you let him stand there all by himself?" she asked with an Étourderie that did not seem quite natural.

"It is my misfortune to-night," answered Goutran, "that I am forced to neglect all that is dear to me."

Carmen did not reply, but again she turned and looked him full in the eyes.

"Yes," she said presently, "introduce the young man, if you choose. Being both forgotten to-night, it is well that we should be together."

Esperance looked up at this moment, and Goutran made him a signal.

"Mademoiselle," said the host, "permit me to present to you the Vicomte de Monte-Cristo."

Esperance bowed low.

"I think I have never had the pleasure of meeting you before, Vicomte," said Carmen.

"Oh! Esperance is a workingman!" cried Goutran. "He disdains our worldly pleasures."

Esperance protested with a gesture, but evidently his mind was elsewhere.

"I rely on you, Mademoiselle, and on your charming friends," continued Goutran, "to cure this misanthrope of his bad habits!"

Carmen, probably displeased at the indifference manifested by Esperance, now drew her host away.

"What do you think of him?" asked Goutran.

"He is good looking, certainly, but I cannot judge of his mind."

"He is entirely upset of late. I have just taken his education in hand."

Carmen seemed trying to recall something.

"The Count of Monte-Cristo is the person who met with such a series of incredible adventures, and is named Edmond DantÈs?" she asked.

"Yes, you are right."

"And tell me, if you can—excuse the question—if Monsieur de Laisangy had ever any relations with him?"

"Ah! that I cannot say. Your father has not been in Paris for some years, and the Count has been here very little of late. But I can easily find out for you."

"No, no—pray make no inquiries!" said Carmen, eagerly. "But the terrace—where is it?"

"Here it is!" answered Goutran, raising a curtain.

The apartment that Goutran occupied was on the second floor, and the terrace, of which he had spoken so slightingly, was draped with clematis, and commanded a beautiful view down the avenue to the Place de la Concorde.

The evening was calm and the air delicious. Carmen certainly deserved to be called imprudent. She looked very lovely in the moonlight, and Goutran was young and passionately in love. Carmen still leaned on his arm. She murmured softly:

"How delicious it is here!"

He slipped his arm around her waist, and as she threw back her head to look up at the moon, Goutran leaned forward and kissed her. Let her who is without sin throw the first stone!

At this precise moment a clear voice came from the garden below, and this voice said:

"Do not be too anxious to learn my name, Monsieur de Laisangy."

The two young people separated hastily. Carmen ran to the balustrade and looked over, but she could see nothing, and heard now only two angry voices disputing. Carmen went to the window, and opening it, said coldly:

"We will go in, if you please!"

As they entered the gallery, the Vicomte de Monte-Cristo hurried up to Goutran.

"Come with me," he said, "I must see you at once!"