There was no more talk after the master had given the order for work.
Most of the easels were shifted round and fresh positions taken up, then
there was a little pause.
"She is late," M. Goudé said, with an impatient stamp of the foot. The
words were scarcely out of his mouth when the door opened and a girl
entered.
"Good-morning, messieurs," and she made a sweeping courtesy.
"You are five minutes late, Minette."
"Ma foi, master, what would you have with the Prussians in sight and all
Paris in the streets--five minutes mean neither here nor there. I
expected praise for having come at all."
"There, there," the artist said hastily, "run into your closet and
change, we are all waiting."
She walked across the room to a door in the corner, with an expression
of careless defiance in her face, and reappeared in five minutes in the
dress of a Mexican peasant girl attired for a fête. The dress suited her
admirably. She was rather above the middle height, her figure lithe and
supple with exceptionally graceful curves; her head was admirably poised
on her neck. Her hair was very dark, and her complexion Spanish rather
than French. Her father was from Marseilles and her mother from Arles.
Minette was considered the best model in Paris, and M. Goudé had the
merit of having discovered her. Three years before, when passing through
a street inhabited by the poorer class of workmen in Montmartre, he had
seen her leaning carelessly against a doorway. He was struck with the
easy grace of her pose. He walked up the street and then returned. As he
did so he saw her spring out and encounter an older woman, and at once
enter upon a fierce altercation with her. It was carried on with all the
accompaniment of southern gesture and ceased as suddenly as it began;
the girl, with a gesture of scorn and contempt turning and walking back
to the post she had left with a mien as haughty as that of a Queen
dismissing an insolent subject.
"That girl would be worth a fortune as a model," the artist muttered. "I
must secure her; her action and gesture are superb." He walked up to
her, lifted his broad hat, and said "Mademoiselle, I am an artist. My
name is Goudé. I have an academy for painting, and I need a model. The
work is not hard, it is but to sit or stand for two or three hours of a
morning, and the remuneration I should offer would be five francs a day
for this. Have I your permission to speak to your parents?"
There was an angry glitter in her eye--a change in her pose that,
slight as it was, reminded the artist of a cat about to spring.
"A model for a painter, monsieur? Is it that you dare to propose that I
shall sit without clothes to be stared at by young men? I have heard of
such things. Is this what monsieur wishes?"
"Not at all, not at all," Mr. Goudé said hastily. "Mademoiselle would
always be dressed. She would be sometimes a Roman lady, sometimes a
Spanish peasant, a Moorish girl, a Breton, or other maiden. You would
always be free to refuse any costume that you considered unsuitable."
Her expression changed again. "If that is all, I might do it," she said;
"it is an easy way of earning money. How often would you want me?"
"I should say three times a week, and on the other three days you would
have no difficulty in obtaining similar work among artists of my own
acquaintance. Here is my card and address."
The girl took it carelessly.
"I will speak to my father about it this evening when he comes home from
work. You are quite sure that I shall not have to undress at all?"
"I have assured mademoiselle already that nothing of the sort will be
required of her. There are models indeed who pose for figure, but these
are a class apart, and I can assure mademoiselle that her feelings of
delicacy will be absolutely respected."
The next day Minette Dufaure appeared at the studio and had ever since
sat for all the female figures required. The air of disdain and defiance
she had first shown soon passed away, and she entered with zest and
eagerness upon her work. She delighted in being prettily and becomingly
dressed. She listened intelligently to the master's descriptions of the
characters that she was to assume, and delighted him with the readiness
with which she assumed suitable poses, and the steadiness with which she
maintained them.
There was nothing of the stiffness of the model in her attitudes. They
had the charm of being unstudied and natural, and whether as a
bacchanal, a peasant girl, or a Gaulish amazon, she looked the part
equally well; her face was singularly mobile, and although this was an
inferior consideration to the master, she never failed to represent the
expression appropriate to the character she assumed.
Her reputation was soon established among the artists who occasionally
dropped into Goudé's studio, and her spare time was fully occupied, and
that at much higher rates of pay than those she earned with him. After
the first two or three months she came but twice a week there, as that
amply sufficed for the needs of the studio. On his telling her that he
should no longer require her to come three times a week, as his pupils
had other things to learn besides drawing the female figure, the master
said--
"I must pay you higher in future, Minette. I know that my friends are
paying you five francs an hour."
"A bargain is a bargain," she said. "You came to me first, and but for
you I should never have earned a penny. Now we have moved into a better
street and have comfortable lodgings. We have everything we want, and I
am laying by money fast. You have always treated me well, and I like you
though your temper is even worse than my father's. I shall keep to my
agreement as long as you keep to yours, and if you do not I shall not
come here at all."
With the students Minette was a great favorite. In the pause of five
minutes every half-hour to allow her to change her position, she chatted
and laughed with them with the frankest good temper, more than holding
her own in the sallies of chaff. When they occasionally made excursions
in a body into the country to sketch and paint, she was always of the
party, going in the capacity of comrade instead of that of a model,
contributing a full share to the lunch basket, but ready to pose as a
peasant girl with a fagot on her head, a gleaner, or a country-woman
with a baby on her lap, according to the scene and requirements. It was
a matter of course that Minette should be present at every supper party
or little fête among the students, always being placed in the seat of
honor at the head of the table, and joining in all the fun of those
merry reunions. For a time she treated all alike as comrades, and
accepted no compliments save those so extravagant as to provoke general
laughter. Gradually, however, it came to be understood among the
students that Minette made an exception in the case of Arnold Dampierre,
and that on occasions when they happened to break up in pairs he was
generally by her side.
"One never can tell what women will do," René Caillard said one evening,
when five or six of them were sitting smoking together. "Now, Minette
might have the pick of us."
"No, no, René," one of the others protested, "most of us are suited
already."
"Well, several of us, then. I am at present unattached, and so are
André, and Pierre, and Jean; so is Cuthbert. Now, putting us aside, no
woman in her senses could hesitate between the Englishman and Dampierre.
He has a better figure, is stronger and better looking. He is cleverer,
and is as good-tempered as the American is bad; and yet she takes a
fancy for Dampierre, and treats all the rest of us, including the
Englishman, as if we were boys."
"I fancy women like deference," Pierre Leroux said. "She is a good
comrade with us all, she laughs and jokes with us as if she were one of
ourselves. Now the American very seldom laughs and never jokes. He
treats her as if she were a duchess and takes her altogether seriously.
I believe he would be capable of marrying her."
The others all burst into a laugh.
"What are you laughing at?" Cuthbert asked, as he entered the room at
the moment.
"Pierre is just saying that he thinks the American is capable of
marrying Minette."
"I hope not," Cuthbert said, more seriously than he generally spoke.
"Minette is altogether charming as she is. She is full of fun and life;
she is clever and sparkling. There is no doubt that in her style she is
very pretty. As to her grace it needs no saying. I think she is an
honest good girl, but the idea of marrying her would frighten me. We see
the surface and it is a very pleasant one, but it is only the surface.
Do you think a woman could look as she does in some of her poses and not
feel it? We have never seen her in a passion, but if she got into one,
it would be terrible. When she flashes out sometimes it is like a tongue
of flame from a slumbering volcano. You would feel that there might be
an eruption that would sweep everything before it. As you know, I gave
up painting her after the first two months, but I sketch her in every
pose; not always her whole figure, but her face, and keep the sketches
for use some day. I was looking through them only yesterday and I said
to myself, 'this woman is capable of anything.' She might be a Joan of
Arc, or Lucraetzia Borghia. She is a puzzle to me altogether. Put her in
a quiet, happy home and she might turn out one of the best of women. Let
her be thrown into turbulent times and she might become a demon of
mischief. At present she is altogether undeveloped. She is two and
twenty in years, but a child, or rather a piquant, amusing young girl,
in manner, and perhaps in disposition. She is an enigma of which I
should be sorry to have to undertake the solution. As she seems, I like
her immensely, but when I try to fathom what she really is, she
frightens me."
The others laughed.
"Poor little Minette," Pierre Leroux said. "You are too hard upon her
altogether, Cuthbert. The girl is a born actress and would make her
fortune on the stage. She can represent, by the instinct of art,
passions which she has never felt. She can be simple and majestic, a
laughing girl and a furious woman, a Christian martyr and a bacchanal,
simply because she has mobile features, intelligence, sentiment,
emotion, and a woman's instinct, that is all. She is a jolly little
girl, and the only fault I have to find with her is that she has the bad
taste to prefer that gloomy American to me."
"Well, I hope you are right, Pierre, though I hold my own opinion
unchanged--at any rate I sincerely trust that Dampierre will not make a
fool of himself with her. You men do not like him because you don't
understand him. You are gay and light-hearted, you take life as it
comes. You form connections easily and lightly, and break them off again
a few months later just as easily. Dampierre takes life earnestly. He is
indolent, but that is a matter of race and blood. He would not do a
dishonorable action to save his life. I believe he is the heir to a
large fortune, and he can, therefore, afford to work at his art in a
dilettante sort of manner, and not like us poor beggars who look forward
to earning our livelihood by it. He is passionate, I grant, but that is
the effect of his bringing up on a plantation in Louisiana, surrounded
by his father's slaves, for though they are now free by law the nature
of the negro is unchanged, and servitude is his natural position. The
little white master is treated like a god, every whim is humored, and
there being no restraining hand upon him, it would be strange if he did
not become hasty and somewhat arrogant.
"Not that there is any arrogance about Dampierre--he is unaffected and
simple in his tastes, except in the matter of his lodgings. I question
if there is one of us who spends less than he does, but he no more
understands you than you understand him; he takes your badinage
seriously, and cannot understand that it is harmless fun. However, he is
better in that respect than when he first came over, and in time, no
doubt, his touchiness will die out. God forbid that he should ever spoil
his life by such a hideous mistake as marrying Minette. Except on the
principle that people are always attracted by their opposites, I can't
account for his infatuation for this girl, or for her taking up with
him. He has never alluded to the subject to me. I don't know that her
name has ever been mentioned between us. I agree with you that I think
he is in earnest about her, but my conclusion is certainly not formed on
anything he has ever said himself. I have often thought that a good deal
of his irritability arises from his annoyance at her fun and easy way
with us all. He never comes to any of our little meetings. If he is
really in earnest about her, I can understand that it would be a
terrible annoyance to him to see her taking a lead in such meetings and
associating so freely with your, let us say, temporary wives. I have
seen him on some of our sketching excursions walk away, unable to
contain his anger when you have all been laughing and joking with her."
"I consider that to be an insolence," René said hotly.
"No, no, René, imagine yourself five years older, and making a fortune
rapidly by your art, in love with some girl whom you hope to make your
wife. I ask you whether you would like to see her laughing and chatting
_en bonne camarade_ with a lot of wild young students. Still less, if
you can imagine such a thing, joining heart and soul in the fun of one
of their supper parties. You would not like it, would you?"
"No," René admitted frankly. "I own I shouldn't. Of course, I cannot
even fancy such a thing occurring, but if it did I can answer for it
that I should not be able to keep my temper. I think now that you put it
so, we shall be able to make more allowances for the American in
future."
To this the others all agreed, and henceforth the tension that had not
unfrequently existed between Dampierre and his fellow-students was
sensibly relaxed.
"You were not here last week, Minette," M. Goudé said, as he went up on
to the platform at the end of the room to arrange her pose.
"I did not think that you would expect me, master," she said, "but even
if you had I could not have come. Do you think that one could stand
still like a statue for hours when great things were being done, when
the people were getting their liberty again, and the flag of the despot
was being pulled down from the Tuileries. I have blood in my veins,
master, not ice."
"Bah!" M. Goudé exclaimed. "What difference does it make to you, or to
anyone as far as I see, whether the taxes are levied in the name of an
Emperor or of a Republic? Do you think a Republic is going to feed you
any better and reduce your rents, or to permit Belleville and Montmartre
to become masters of Paris? In a short time they will grumble at the
Republic just as they grumble at the Emperor. It is folly and madness.
The Emperor is nothing to me, the Government is nothing to me. I have
to pay my taxes--they are necessary--for the army has to be kept up and
the Government paid; beyond that I do not care a puff of my pipe what
Government may call itself."
"You will see what you will see," said the girl, sententiously.
"I dare say, Minette, as long as I have eyes I shall do that. Now don't
waste any more time."
"What am I to be, master?"
"A Spanish peasant girl dancing; hold these slips of wood in your hand,
they are supposed to be castanets; now just imagine that music is
playing and that you are keeping time to it with them, and swaying your
body, rather than moving your feet to the music."
After two or three changes she struck an attitude that satisfied the
master.
"That will do, Minette, stand as you are; you cannot improve that. Now,
gentlemen, to work."
She was standing with one foot advanced, as if in the act of springing
on to it; one of her arms was held above her head, the other advanced
across her body; her head was thrown back, and her balance perfect.
Cuthbert looked up from his work, took out a note-book, and rapidly
sketched the figure; and then, putting his book into his pocket again,
returned to his work, the subject of which was a party of Breton
mobiles, with stacked arms under some trees in the Champs Elysée. He had
taken the sketch two days before and was now transferring it on to
canvas.
"I should not be surprised," he thought to himself, "if the girl is
right, and if there is not serious trouble brewing in the slums of
Paris.
"As soon as these fellows find out that they are no better off for the
change, and that a Republic does not mean beer and skittles, or, as they
would like, unlimited absinthe and public workshops, with short hours
and high pay, they will begin to get savage, and then there will be
trouble. The worst of it is one can never rely upon the troops, and
discipline is certainly more relaxed than usual now that the Emperor
has been upset, and every Jack thinks himself as good as his master.
Altogether I think we are likely to have lively times here before long.
I am not sure that the enemies within are not likely to prove as great a
danger to Paris as the foe without. It was a happy idea of mine to come
to Paris, and I am likely to get subjects enough to last for a
life-time, though I don't know that battle scenes are altogether in my
line. It does not seem to me that I have any line in particular yet. It
is a nuisance having to decide on that, because I have heard Wilson say
an artist, like a writer, must have a line, and when he has once taken
it up he must stick to it. If a man once paints sea pieces the public
look to get sea pieces from him, and won't take anything else. It is the
same thing if he accustoms them to Eastern, or Spanish, or any other
line.
"It maybe that this war will decide the matter for me, which will be a
comfort and relief, though I doubt if I shall ever be able to stick in
one groove. Goudé said only yesterday that I had better go on working at
both figure and landscape. At present he could not give an opinion as to
which I was likely to succeed in best, but that he rather fancied that
scenes of life and action, combined with good backgrounds, were my
forte, and battle scenes would certainly seem to come under that
category."
After work was over Cuthbert went out by himself and spent the afternoon
in sketching. He was engaged on a group of soldiers listening to one of
their number reading a bulletin of the latest news, when his eye fell on
a young lady walking with a brisk step towards him. He started, then
closed his note-book suddenly, and as she was on the point of passing,
turned to her and held out his hand.
"Have you dropped from the skies, Miss Brander?"
There was surprise, but neither embarrassment nor emotion on her face as
she said, frankly--
"Why, Cuthbert Hartington, this is a curious meeting. I did know you
were in Paris, for I had heard as much from my father, but I had no idea
of your address and I have wondered many times since I came here, five
weeks ago, whether we should run against each other. No, I have not
dropped from the clouds, and you ought to have known I should be here; I
told you that I was going to have a year in Germany and then a year in
France. My year in Germany was up two months ago. I went home for a
fortnight, and here I am as a matter of course."
"I might have known you would carry out your programme exactly as you
had sketched it, but I thought that the disturbed state of things over
here might have induced you to defer that part of the plan until a more
appropriate season. Surely Paris is not just at present a pleasant abode
for a young lady, and is likely to be a much more unpleasant one later
on."
"I think there could hardly be a more appropriate time for being here,
Mr. Hartington; one could have no better time for studying social
problems than the present when conventionalities have gone to the winds
and one sees people as they are; but this is hardly the place to talk. I
am boarding with a family at No. 15 Avenue de Passy. Will you come and
see me there?"
"Certainly I will, if you will allow me. What will be a convenient
time?"
"I should say three o'clock in the afternoon. They are all out then,
except Madame Michaud and her little daughter, and we shall be able to
chat comfortably, which we could not do if you came in the evening, when
the father is at home and two boys who are away at school during the
day. Will you come to-morrow?"
"Yes, my afternoons are free at present."
She held out her hand and then walked away with a steady business-like
step. Cuthbert stood watching her till she had disappeared in the crowd.
"She has no more sentiment in her composition at present," he said to
himself with a laugh that had some bitterness in it, "than a nether
millstone. Her mind is so wrapped up in this confounded fad of hers that
there is no room in it for anything else. I might have been a cousin,
instead of a man she had refused, for any embarrassment or awkwardness
she felt at our sudden meeting. It clearly made no impression at all
upon her. She remembers, of course, that she met me at Newquay. I don't
suppose she has really forgotten that I asked her to be my wife, but it
was a mere incident, and affected her no more than if I had asked her to
buy a picture and she had refused. I wish to goodness I had not met her
again. I had got fairly over it, and was even beginning to wonder how I
ever could have wanted to marry anyone so different in every way from
the sort of woman I fancied I should have fallen in love with. How
foolish of her coming over to Paris at this time. Well, I daresay it has
all saved a lot of trouble. I suppose at that time Brander would have
been delighted at the prospect, but it would have been a very different
thing after the failure of the bank. I don't think he would have made a
pleasant father-in-law under the present circumstances. He is an old
fox. I always thought so, and I think so more than ever now. It has been
a queer affair altogether. I wonder what Mary thinks of it all. I
suppose she will talk to me about it to-morrow afternoon. By the way, I
have to go this evening with René and the others to be sworn in or
attested, or whatever they call it, at the Mairie. Their report as to
the officers is satisfactory. I have heard that Longfranc was an
excellent officer before he came into some money, cut the army and took
up art. I have no doubt he will make a good major, and he understands
the men better than most army men would do. They say the Colonel is a
good man, too, and was very popular with his regiment before he retired
from the service."