A VISITOR FROM PARIS.
It was seven o'clock in the evening, ten days after Jack's second
encounter with Madge Foster, and a blaze of light shone from the big
studio that overlooked Ravenscourt Park. The lord and master of it was
writing business letters, a task in which he was assisted by frequent
cigarettes. A tray containing whisky, brandy and siphons stood on a
Moorish inlaid smoking stand, and suggested correctly that a visitor was
expected. At noon Jack had received a letter from Victor Nevill, of whom
he had seen nothing since their meeting at Strand-on-the-Green, to say
that he was coming out at eight o'clock that night to have a chat over
old times. Alphonse, being no longer required, had gone to his lodgings
near by.
"It will be a bit awkward if Nevill wants his dinner," Jack said to
himself, in an interval of his letter writing. "I'll keep him here a
couple of hours, and then take him to dine in town. He's a good fellow,
and will understand. He'll find things rather different from the Paris
days."
There was a touch of pardonable pride in that last thought, for few
artists in London could boast of such luxuriously decorated quarters, or
of such a collection of treasures as Jack's purse and good taste had
enabled him to gather around him. The hard oak floor, oiled and polished
by the hands of Alphonse, was sparsely strewn with Oriental rugs and a
couple of tiger skins. A screen of stamped leather hid three sides of
the French stove. The eye met a picturesque confusion of inlaid cabinets
with innumerable drawers, oak chests and benches, easy chairs of every
sort, Chippendale trays and escritoires, Spanish lanterns dangling from
overhead, old tables worn hollow on top with age, countless weapons and
pieces of armor, and shelves stacked with blue delf china and rows of
pewter plates. A long costume case flashed its glass doors at a cosy
corner draped with art muslin. On the walls, many of them presented by
friends, were scores of water-colors and oil paintings, etchings and
engravings, no two of them framed alike. Minor articles were scattered
about in profusion, and a couple of bulging sketch-books bore witness to
their owner's summer wanderings about England.
The letters finished and stamped, Jack closed his desk with a sigh of
relief. The evening was chilly, and he had started a small fire of coals
in the grate--he used his stove only in wintry weather. He pulled a big
chair to the blaze, stretched his legs against the fender, and fell
straightway into a reverie; an expression that none of his English
companions had ever seen there softened his handsome face.
"I wonder what she is doing now," he thought. "I fancy I can see her
sitting opposite to her father, at the dinner table, with the soft
lamplight on her lovely cheeks, and that bewitching look in her eyes.
I am a conceited fool to believe that she cares for me, and yet--and
yet--By Jove, I would marry her in a minute. She is the most winsome
girl I ever saw. It is not like the passion I had for Diane--I was a
foolish, hot-headed boy then. Madge would be my good angel. In spite of
myself, she has come into my life and taken a deep hold on my heart--I
can't put her out again. Jack, my boy, you had better have gone on that
sketching tour--better have fled to Devonian wilds before it was too
late."
But was it too late now? If so, the fact did not seem to trouble Jack
much, for he laughed softly as he stirred the fire. He, the impregnable
and boastful one, the woman-hater, had fallen a victim when he believed
himself most secure. It was unutterably sweet to him--this second
passion--and he knew that it was not to be shaken off.
During the past ten days he had seen Madge frequently. Nearly every
afternoon, when the fading sun glimmered through a golden haze, he had
wandered down to Strand-on-the-Green, confident that the girl would not
be far away, that she would welcome him shyly and blushingly, with that
radiant light in her eyes which he hoped he could read aright. They had
enjoyed a couple of tramps together, when time permitted--once up the
towing-path toward Richmond, and again down the river to Barnes.
They were happy hours for both. Madge was unconventional, and would
have resented a hint that she was doing anything in the least improper.
She had left boarding school two years before, and since then she had
rejoiced in her freedom, not finding life dull in the sleepy Thames-side
suburb of London. As for Jack, his conscience gave him few twinges in
regard to these surreptitious meetings. It would be different, he told
himself, had Stephen Foster chosen to receive him as a visitor. But he
had gathered, from what Madge told him, that her father was eccentric,
and detested visitors--that he would permit nothing to break the
monotonous and regular habits of the secluded old house. Madge admitted
that one friend of his, a young man, came sometimes; but she intimated
unmistakably that she did not like him. Jack was curious to know what
business took Stephen Foster to town every day, but on that subject the
girl never spoke.
As the young artist sat watching the fire in the grate, his fancy
painted pleasing pictures. "Why should I not marry?" he mused. "Bachelor
life is well enough in its way, but it can't compare with a snug house,
and one's own dining-table, and a charming wife to drive away the
occasional blue-devils. I have money put aside, and it won't be long
till I'm making an easy twelve hundred a year. By Jove, I will--"
A noisy rap at the door interrupted Jack's train of thought, and brought
him to his feet.
"Come in!" he cried, expecting to see Nevill.
But the visitor was a telegraph boy, bearing the familiar brown
envelope. Jack signed for it, and tore open the message.
"Awfully seedy," Victor Nevill wired. "Sorry I can't get out to-night.
Am going to bed."
"No answer," said Jack, dismissing the boy. With his hands in his
pockets he strolled undecidedly about the studio for a couple of
minutes. "I hope nothing serious is the matter with Nevill," he
reflected. "He's not the sort of a chap to go to bed unless he feels
pretty bad. What shall I do now? I must be quick about it if I want
to get any dinner in town. It's past eight, and--"
There was the sound of slow footsteps out in the passage, followed by
the nervous jingling of the electric bell.
"Who can that be?" Jack muttered.
He pulled a cord that turned the gas higher in the big circlet of jets
overhead, and opened the door curiously. The man who entered the studio
was a complete stranger, and it was certain that he was not an
Englishman, if dress and appearance could decide that fact. He was
very tall and well-built, with a handsome face, so deeply tanned as
to suggest a recent residence in a tropical country. His mustaches were
twisted into waxed points, and there was a good deal of gray in his
beard, which was parted German fashion in the middle, and carefully
brushed to each side. His top hat was unmistakably French, with a flat
rim, and his boots were of patent leather. As he opened his long caped
cloak, the collar of which he kept turned up, it was seen that he was in
evening dress.
"Do I address Monsieur Vernon, the artist?" he asked in good English,
with a French accent.
"Yes, that's right."
"Formerly Monsieur John Clare?"
"I once bore that name," said Jack, with a start of surprise; he was
ill-pleased to hear it after so many years.
The visitor produced a card bearing the name of M. Felix Marchand, Parc
Monceaux, Paris.
"I do not recall you," said Jack. "Will you take a seat."
"We have not met until now," said M. Marchand, "but I have the honor to
be familiar with your work, and to possess some of it. Pictures are to
me a delight--I confess myself a humble patron of art--and a few years
ago I purchased several water-color sketches signed by your name. They
appealed to me especially because they were bits of Paris--one looking
down the river from the bridge of the Carrousel, and the other a night
impression of Montmartre."
"I remember them vaguely," said Jack. "They, with others, were sold for
me by a dealer named Cambon--"
"Monsieur is right. It was from Jacques Cambon, of the Quai Voltaire,
I obtained the sketches. They pleased me much, and I went again to seek
more--that was eighteen months later, when I returned to Paris after a
long absence. Imagine my disappointment to learn that Jacques Cambon
had no further knowledge of Monsieur Clare, and no more of his sketches
to sell."
"No; I had come to London by that time--or was in Italy," said Jack.
"But perhaps--pardon me--you would prefer to carry on our conversation
in French."
"Monsieur is thoughtful," replied M. Marchand. "He will understand that
I desire, while in England, to improve as much as possible my knowledge
of the language."
"Quite so," assented Jack. "You speak it already like a native born," he
added to himself.
"The years passed on," resumed the Frenchman, "but I did not forget the
author of my little sketches. A few weeks ago I resolved to cross the
Channel and pay a visit to London, which I last saw in 1891. I had but
lately returned from a long trip to Algeria and Morocco, and I was told
that the English spring was mild; in Paris I found the weather too cold
for my chest complaint. So I said to myself, 'I will make endeavor to
find the artist, John Clare.' But how? I had an idea. I went to the
school of the great Julian, and there my inquiries met with success.
'Monsieur Clare,' one of the instructors told me, 'is now a prosperous
painter of London, by the name of Vernon.' They gave me the address of
a magazine in your Rue Paternoster, and at that place I was this morning
informed where to find you. I trust that my visit is not an intrusion."
"Oh, not at all," said Jack. "Who at Julian's can have known so much
about me?" he thought.
"I have spoken with freedom--perhaps too much," M. Marchand went on.
"But I desired to explain clearly. I have come on business, monsieur,
hoping that I may be privileged to purchase one or two pictures to take
back with me to Paris."
"I am very sorry," said Jack, "but I fear I have nothing whatever to
sell at present. I am indeed flattered by your kind interest in my work."
"Monsieur has nothing?"
Jack shook his head.
"You see I do a great deal in the way of magazine drawing," he
explained. "The half-finished water-colors on the easels are orders.
I expect to have a large painting in the Royal Academy shortly."
"Alas, I will not be able to see it," M. Marchand murmured. "I leave
London to-morrow." All the time he was speaking he had been looking with
interest about the studio, and his eyes still wandered from wall to
wall. "Ah, monsieur, I have a thought," he added suddenly. "It is of the
finished pictures, of your later work, that you speak. But surely you
possess many sketches, and among them would be some of Paris, such as
you placed with Jacques Cambon. Is it not so?"
Jack, in common with all artists, was reluctant to part with his
sketches. But he was growing uncomfortably hungry, and felt disposed to
make a sacrifice for the sake of getting rid of his importunate visitor.
"I will show you my collection," he answered briefly.
Lifting the drapery of a couch, he pulled out one of half a dozen fat
portfolios, of huge dimensions. He untied the strings and opened it,
exhibiting a number of large water-color drawings on bristol-board, most
of them belonging to his student days in Paris, some made in Holland and
Normandy. The sight of them, recalling his married life with Diane,
awoke unpleasant memories. He moved away and lighted a cigarette.
The Frenchman began to turn the sketches over eagerly, and presently
Jack saw him staring hard at an unstiffened canvas which he had found.
It was the duplicate Rembrandt painted for Martin Von Whele. Jack had
not been reading the papers much of late, and was ignorant of the
Hollander's death.
"That is nothing of any account," he said. "It is the copy of an old
master."
"Ah, I have a little taste for the antique," replied M. Marchand.
"This is repulsive--it is a frightful face. Were it in my collection,
monsieur, it would quite spoil my pretty bits of scenery."
He tossed the canvas carelessly aside, and finally chose a couple of
water-colors, both showing picturesque nooks of Paris.
"I should like to have these," he said, "if monsieur is willing to name
a price."
"Fifteen pounds for the two," Jack announced reluctantly. "Can I send
them for you?" he added.
"No; I will take them with me."
Jack tied up the portfolio and replaced it under the couch, an operation
that was closely watched by his visitor. Then he wrapped up the two
sketches, and received three five-pound notes.
"May I offer you some refreshment?" he said, politely. "You will find
brandy there--"
"I love the golden whisky of England," protested M. Marchand.
He mixed some for himself, and after drinking it he wiped his lips with
a handkerchief. As he returned it to his pocket Jack saw on the white
linen a brown stain that he was sure had not been there before.
M. Felix Marchand looked at his watch, shook hands with Jack, and hoped
that he would have the pleasure of seeing him again. Then he bowed
ceremoniously, and was gone, carrying the parcel under his arm. Jack
closed the door, and retired to an inner room to change his clothing for
the evening.
"I'll have a grill at the Trocadero," he told himself, "and drop in at
the Alhambra for the last few numbers. A queer chap, that Frenchman!
Where did he pick up such good English? He was all right, of course, but
I can't help feeling a bit puzzled. Fancy his taking a craze for my
studies of Paris! I remember that they gathered dust for months in old
Cambon's window, until one day I missed them. It's a funny thing about
that brown mark which came off on his handkerchief after he wiped his
mustache. Still, I've known men to use such stuff to give them a healthy
color, though this chap didn't look as if he needed it. And he said he
suffered from a chest complaint."
* * * * *
At eight o'clock Jack was up and splashing in his bath, a custom that he
hugely enjoyed, winter and summer. He had come home the night before by
the last train, after dining with some friends he had picked up, and
spending an hour with them at the Alhambra.
He dressed himself with unusual care and discrimination, selecting a
suit of dark brown tweeds that matched his complexion, and a scarf with
a good bit of red in it. Prepared for him in the studio, and presided
over by Alphonse in a white apron, were rolls and coffee, eggs and
bacon. The sun was shining brightly outside. The postman came while he
was at breakfast, and he read his batch of letters; from some of which
dropped checks. One he purposely saved for the last, and the
contents--only a few lines--brought a smile to his lips. He tore the
dainty sheet of note-paper into small pieces and threw them into the
fire. Then he filled his cigar case with choice Regalias, pulled on his
driving gloves, and perched a jaunty Alpine hat on his head.
"Alphonse, you must be here all day," he said. "Mordaunt, of the
Frivolity, will send for that poster; and a messenger may come from the
Piccadilly Magazine--the drawings are in a parcel on my desk. Say to any
person who calls that I will not be back until evening."
"I will remember," assured Alphonse.
"By the by, Alphonse, you were living in a big house in the Parc
Monceaux half a dozen years ago?"
"Monsieur is right."
"Do you remember a gentleman by the name of Marchand--M. Felix
Marchand?"
"My memory may be at fault," Alphonse answered, "but I do not recall a
person of that name."
"Well, no matter. He may not have resided there then, and the Parc
Monceaux means a large neighborhood."
Jack banished M. Marchand from his mind with ease, as he went out into
the sunshine and freshness of the spring morning; the singing of the
birds, and the beauty of the trees and flowers, told him that it was a
glorious thing to be alive. He waited a few moments at a nearby livery
stable, while the attendants brought out a very swell-looking and newly
varnished trap, and put into the shafts a horse that would have held his
own in Hyde Park.
Chiswick high-road, with its constantly widening and narrowing
perspectives, its jumble of old and modern houses, had never looked more
cheerful as Jack drove rapidly westward. He crossed Kew Bridge, rattled
on briskly, and finally entered Richmond, where he pulled up by the curb
opposite to the station where centre a number of suburban railway lines.
He had not long to wait--a glance at his watch told him that. Five
minutes later the rumble of an incoming train was heard, and presently
a double procession of passengers came up the steps to the street. Jack
had eyes for one only, a radiant vision of loveliness, as sweet and
fresh and blushing as a June rose. The vision was Madge Foster, her
graceful figure set off by a new spring gown from Regent street, and a
sailor hat perched on her golden curls. She stepped lightly into the
trap, and nestled down on the cushions.
"Oh, Jack, what _will_ you think of me after this," she cried, half
seriously.
"I think that the famed beauties of Hampton Court would turn green
in their frames with envy if they could see you now," Jack answered
evasively, as he flicked the horses with his whip. "Here we go for
a jolly day. It will come to an end all too soon."