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The painter had told the vicomte that he desired to revenge himself upon Count Vellini. The other reason he had for giving this party he said nothing of, and yet it was the one which did honor to his heart. Under the pretence of surprising the count, he had asked his numerous friends to loan him their pictures, and had hung them in splendid style.
"Yes, it is certainly not as large as the Place Vendome, but that doesn't matter. Diogenes lived in a hogshead, and a dozen good friends will find plenty of room in my house. Let me tell you what gave me the idea. While I was studying in Rome, an aristocratic Italian, Count Vellini, took an interest in me. He was my friend, my Macænas, and I owe a great deal to him.
I have no intention of disturbing your peace." Anselmo sank upon a chair, and his eyes filled with hot tears. Benedetto hastily ran over the paper and his lips curled contemptuously when he saw the signature. "The fool wrote his own name," he murmured as he rubbed his hands, "may it do him good." The next minute the secretary of Count Vellini disappeared, and Anselmo breathed more freely.
Of his own works he only exhibited the gypsy, and when the guests strode up and down the studio to the music of a small orchestra, it was natural that they criticised or admired this and that painting. Count Vellini, a splendid old gentleman, was enthusiastic over the cause of the party.
Just as he reached the stairs, Monsieur de Larsagny and his daughter, whom Gontram escorted, and Count Vellini and his secretary came down. "Vicomte," said Carmen, vivaciously, "you are a hero, and the rest of the gentlemen can take you for an example." Monsieur de Larsagny coughed slightly, while Fagiano loudly cried: "The vicomte is the worthy son of his father, the great count."
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