Your ‘Last Supper’—I saw it last week. It is a blur. Would thatthe sainted Louis might have taken it bodily， stone by stone，to our France， as he longed to do. You will see； the mere copyhas more honor with us than the original here. Come with us，”
he added persuasively， laying his hand on the painter’s shabbysleeve.
The painter looked down from his height on the royal suitor.
“You do me too much honor， sire. I am an old man.”
“You are Leonardo da Vinci，” said the other stoutly， “thepainter of these pictures. I shall carry them all away， and youwill have to follow，” laughed the monarch. “I will not leaveone.” He rummaged gayly in the unfinished débris， bringingout with each turn some new theme of delight.
The painter stood by， waiting， alert， a trifle uneasy， it mightseem. “And now， sire， shall we see the view from the littlewestern turret？”
“One moment. Ah， what have we here？” He turned thecanvas to the light. The figure against the quaint landscapelooked out with level， smiling glance. He fell upon his kneesbefore it. “Ah， marvellous， marvellous！” he murmured in na？vedelight. He remained long before it， absorbed， forgetful. At lasthe rose. He lifted the picture and placed it on an easel. “Is sheyet alive？” he demanded， turning to the painter.
“She lives in Florence， sire.”
“And her name？”
“Signora Lisa della Gioconda.”
“Her husband？ It matters not.”
“Dead these ten years.”
“And children？”
“A boy. Born shortly after the husband’s death，” he added，after a slight pause. “Shall we proceed to the turret？ The lightchanges fast at sunset.”
“Presently， presently. The portrait must be mine. Theoriginal—We shall see—we shall see.”
“Nay， your Majesty， the portrait is unfinished.”
“Unfinished？” He stared at it anew. “Impossible. It isperfect.”
“There was to be a child.”
“Ah！” The monarch gazed at it intently for many minutes.
The portrait returned the royal look in kind. He broke into alight laugh. “You did well to omit the child，” he said. “Come，we will see the famous sunset now.” He turned to the regalfigure on the easel. “Adieu， Mona Lisa. I come for you again.”
He kissed his fingers with airy grace. He fluttered out. Themocking， sidelong glance followed him.
III
The western sun filled the room. On a couch drawn near thelow French window lay the painter. His eyes looked acrossthe valley to a long line of poplars， silver in the wind. Like astrange processional， up the hill， they held him. They came fromLombardy. In the brasier， across the room， burned a flickeringfire. Even on the warmest days he shivered for sunnier skies.
Above the fire hung a picture—a woman seated in a rock-boundcircle， looking tranquilly out upon the world of life.
The painter touched a silver bell that stood on a table athand. A figure entered. It crossed to the window. The face wasturned in shadow. It waited.
“Has our good physician gone， Francesco？” asked thepainter.
Francesco bowed. There was silence in the room except forthe fire.
“What does he say of us today？”
The youth brushed his hand across his eyes impatiently. “Healways croaks. He is never hopeful.” He approached the couchand knelt by it， his face in the shadow still.
The painter lay tranquil， watching the poplars. “Why grieve？
An exile has not so many joys that he need fear to lose them，Francesco.”