I moved away, grieved and mortified to the soul,
cursing the intrusion of the mysterious personage whose insolent
superiority had overthrown the hopes of my friends.
At the door of the gallery I met G----, the painter, just returned from
London. I drew him with me into the inner gallery, to make a thorough
examination of the picture. I called his attention to the wonderful
resemblance of the queen to Honoria. He did not see it; we looked
together, and I began to think that it might have been a delusion. I told
the Duke's story of the picture to G----. He examined the canvas, tested
the layers of color, and pronounced the work genuine and of immense value.
We looked again and again at the queen's head, viewing it in every light.
The resemblance to Honoria had disappeared; nor was the demon any longer a
figure of the Duke's valet.
"One would think," said G----, laughing, "that you had been mesmerized. If
you have been so deceived in a picture, may you not be equally cheated in
a man? I am loath to offend; but, indeed, the person whom you call
Rosecouleur cannot be the Duke of that title, whom I saw in England. I had
leave to copy a picture in his gallery. He was often present. His manners
were mild and unassuming,--not at all like those of this man, to whom, I
acknowledge, the personal resemblance is surprising.
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