She pushed them in, and shut the door behind them. They looked
round them in amazement. Here was an _atelier_ precisely
corresponding in size and outlook to Dubois'. But to their
tired eyes the change was one from squalor to fairyland. The
room was not in fact luxurious at all. But there was a Persian
rug or two on the polished floor; there was a wood fire burning
on the hearth, and close to it there was a low sofa or divan
covered with pieces of old stuffs, and flanked by a table whereon
stood a little meal, a roll, some cut ham, part of a flat fruit
tart from the _patissier_ next door, a coffee pot, and a spirit
kettle ready for lighting. There were two easels in the room;
one was laden with sketches and photographs; the other carried
a half-finished picture of a mosque interior in Oran--a rich
splash of colour, making a centre for all the rest. Everywhere
indeed, on the walls, on the floor, or standing on the chairs,
were studies of Algeria, done with an ostentatiously bold and
rapid hand. On the mantelpiece was a small reproduction in terra
cotta of one of Dalou's early statues, a peasant woman in a long
cloak straining her homely baby to her breast--true and passionate.
Books lay about, and in a corner was a piano, open, with a
confusion of tattered music upon it. And everywhere, as it seemed
to Louie, were _shoes!_--the daintiest and most fantastic shoes
imaginable--Turkish shoes, Pompadour shoes, old shoes and new
shoes, shoes with heels and shoes without, shoes lined with fur,
and shoes blown together, as one might think, out of cardboard
and ribbons. The English girl's eyes fastened upon them at once.
'Ah, you tink my shoes pretty,' said the hostess, speaking a few words
of English, _'c'est mon dada, voyez-vous--ma collection!--Tenez_--I
cannot say dat in English, Monsieur; explain to your sister. My shoes
are my passion, next to my foot. I am not pretty, but my foot is
ravishing. Dalou modelled it for his Siren. That turned my head. Sit
down, Mademoiselle--we will find some plat
es.'
She pushed Louie into a corner of the divan, and then she went over
to a cupboard standing against the wall, and beckoned to David.
'Take the plates--and this potted meat. Now for the _petit
vin_ my doctor cousin brought me last week from the family
estate. I have stowed it away somewhere. Ah! here it is. We are
from the Gironde--at least my mother was. My father was
nobody--_bourgeois_ from tip to toe, though he called himself
an artist. It was a _mesalliance_ for her when she married
him. Oh, he led her a life!--she died when I was small, and last
year _he_ died, eleven months ago. I did my best to cry.
_Impossible!_ He had made Maman and me cry too much. And now I
am perfectly alone in the world, and perfectly well-behaved.
Monsieur Prudhomme may talk--I snap my finger at him. You will have
your ideas, of course. No matter! If you eat my salt, you will
hardly be able to speak ill of me.'
'Mademoiselle!' cried David, inwardly cursing his shyness--a
shyness new to him--and his complete apparent lack of anything to
say, or the means of saying it.
'Oh, don't protest!--after that journey you can't afford to waste
your breath. Move a little, Monsieur--let me open the other door of
the cupboard--there are some chocolates worth eating on that back
shelf. Do you admire my _armoire?_ It is old Breton--it
belonged to my grandmother, who was from Morbihan. She brought her
linen in it. It is cherry wood, you see, mounted in silver. You may
search Paris for another like it. Look at that flower work on the
panels. It is not _banal_ at all--it has character--there is
real design in it. Now take the chocolates, and these sardine--put
them down over there. As for me, I make the coffee.'
She ran over to the spirit lamp, and set it going; she measured out
the coffee; then sitting down on the floor, she took the bellows
and blew up the logs.
'Tell me your name, Monsieur?' she said suddenly, looking round.
David gave it in full, his own name and Louie's. Then he walked up
to her, making an effort to be at his ease, and said something
about their French descent. His mode of speaking was slow and
bookish--correct, but wanting in life. After this year's devotion
to French books, after all his compositions with Barbier, he had
supposed himself so familiar with French! With the woman from the
_loge_, indeed, he could have talked at large, had she been
conversational instead of rude. But here, with this little glancing
creature, he felt himself plunged in a perfect quagmire of
ignorance and stupidity. When he spoke of being half French, she
became suddenly grave, and studied him with an intent piercing
look. 'No,' she said slowly, 'no, at bottom you are not French a bit,
you are all English, I feel it. I should fight you--_a outrance!
Grive_--what a strange name! It's a bird's name. You are not
like it--you do not belong to it. But _David_!--ah, that is
better. _Voyons_!'
She sprang up, ran over to the furthest easel, and, routing about
amongst its disorder of prints and photographs, she hit upon one,
which she held up triumphantly.
'There, Monsieur!--there is your prototype. That is David--the
young David--scourge of the Philistine. You are bigger and broader.
I would rather fight him than you--but it is like you, all the
same. Take it.'
And she held out to him a photograph of the Donatello David at
Florence--the divine young hero in his shepherd's hat, fresh from
the slaying of the oppressor.
He looked at it, red and wondering, then shook his head.
'What is it? Who made it, Mademoiselle?'
'Donatello--oh, I never saw it. I was never in Italy, but a friend
gave it me. It is like you, I tell you. But, what use is that? You
are English--yes, you _are_, in spite of your mother. It is
very well to be called David--you may be Goliath all the time!'
Her tone had grown hard and dry--insulting almost. Her look sent
him a challenge.
He stared at her dumbfounded. All the self-confidence with which he
had hitherto governed his own world had deserted him. He was like a
tongue-tied child in her hands.
She enjoyed her mastery, and his discomfiture. Her look changed and
melted in an instant.
'I am rude,' she said, 'and you can't answer me back--not yet--for a
day or two. _Pardon_! Monsieur David--Mademoiselle--will you
come to supper?'
She put chairs and waved them to their places with the joyous
animation of a child, waiting on them, fetching this and that, with
the quickest, most graceful motions. She had brought from the
_armoire_ some fine white napkins, and now she produced a
glass or two and made her guests provide themselves with the red
wine which neither had ever tasted before, and over which Louie
made an involuntary face. Then she began to chatter and to
eat--both as fast as possible--now laughing at her own English or
at David's French, and now laying down her knife and fork that she
might look at Louie with an intent professional look which
contrasted oddly with the wild freedom of her talk and movements.
Suddenly she took up a wineglass and held it out to David with a
piteous childish gesture.
'Fill it, Monsieur, and then drink--drink to my good luck. I wish
for something--with my _life_--my soul; but there are people
who hate me, who would delight to see me crushed. And it will be
three weeks--three long long weeks, almost--before I know.'
She was very pale, the tears had sprung to her eyes, and the hand
holding the glass trembled. David flushed and frowned in the vain
desire to understand her.
'What am I to do?' he said, taking the glass mechanically, but
making no use of it.
'Drink!--drink to my success. I have two pictures, Monsieur, in the
Salon; you know what that means? the same as your _Academie?
Parfaitement!_ ah! you understand. One is well hung, on the
line; the other has been shamefully treated--but _shamefully!_
And all the world knows why. I have some enemies on the jury, and
they delight in a mean triumph over me--a triumph which is a
scandal. But I have friends, too--good friends--and in three weeks
the rewards will be voted. You understand? the medals, and the
_mentions honorables_. As for a medal--no! I am only two years
in the _atelier;_ I am not unreasonable. But a _mention!
_--ah! Monsieur David, if they don't give it me I shall be very
miserable.'
Her voice had gone through a whole gamut of emotion in this
speech--pride, elation, hope, anger, offended dignity--sinking
finally to the plaintive note of a child asking for consolation.
And luckily David had followed her. His French novels had brought
him across the Salon and the jury system; and Barbier had told him
tales. His courage rose. He poured the wine into the glass with a
quick, uncertain hand, and raised it to his lips.
'_A la gloire de Mademoiselle!_' he cried, tossing it down
with a gesture almost as free and vivid as her own.
Her eye followed him with excitement, taking in every detail of the
action--the masculine breadth of chest, the beauty of the dark head
and short upper lip.
'Very good--very good!' she said, clapping her small hands. 'You did
that admirably--you improve--_n'est-ce pas, Mademoiselle?_'
But Louie only stared blankly and somewhat haughtily in return. She
was beginning to be tired of her silent _role_, and of the
sort of subordination it implied. The French girl seemed to divine
it, and her.
'She does not like me,' she said, with a kind of wonder under her
breath, so that David did not catch the words. 'The other is quite
different.'
Then, springing up, she searched in the pockets of her jacket for
something--lips pursed, brows knitted, as though the quest were
important.
'Where are my cigarettes?' she demanded sharply. 'Ah! here they are.
Mademoiselle--Monsieur.'
Louie laughed rudely, pushing them back without a word. Then she
got up, and began boldly to look about her. The shoes attracted
her, and some Algerian scarves and burnouses that were lying on a
distant chair. She went to turn them over.
Mademoiselle Delaunay looked after her for a moment--with the same
critical attention as before--then with a shrug she threw herself
into a corner of the divan, drawing about her a bit of old
embroidered stuff which lay there. It was so flung, however, as to
leave one dainty foot in an embroidered silk stocking visible
beyond it. The tone of the stocking was repeated in the bunch of
violets at her neck, and the purples of the flowers told with
charming effect against her white skin and the pale fawn colour of
her dress and hair. David watched her with intoxication. She could
hardly be taller than most children of fourteen, but her
proportions were so small and delicate that her height, whatever it
was, seemed to him the perfect height for a woman. She handled her
cigarette with mannish airs; unless it were some old harridan in a
collier's cottage, he had never seen a woman smoke before, and
certainly he had never guessed it could become her so well. Not
pretty! He was in no mood to dissect the pale irregular face with
its subtleties of line and expression; but, as she sat there
smoking and chatting, she was to him the realisation--the climax of
his dream of Paris. All the lightness and grace of that dream, the
strangeness, the thrill of it seemed to have passed into her.
'Will you stay in those rooms?' she inquired, slowly blowing away
the curls of smoke in front of her.
David replied that he could not yet decide. He looked as he
felt--in a difficulty.
'Oh! _you_ will do well enough there. But your
sister--_Tenez_! There is a family on the floor below--an
artist and his wife. I have known them take _pensionnaires_.
They are not the most distinguished persons in the world--_mais
enfin_!--it is not for long. Your sister might do worse than
board with them.'
David thanked her eagerly. He would make all inquiries. He had in
his pocket a note of introduction from Dubois to Madame Cervin, and
another, he believed, to the gentleman on the ground floor--to M.
Montjoie, the sculptor.
'Ah! M. Montjoie!'
Her brows went up, her grey eyes flashed. As for her tone it was
half amused, half contemptuous. She began to speak, moved
restlessly, then apparently thought better of it.
'After all,' she said, in a rapid undertone, '_qu'est-ce que cela
me fait? Allons._ Why did you come here at all, instead of to an
hotel, for so short a time?'
He explained as well as he was able.
'You wanted to see something of French life, and French artists or
writers?' she repeated slowly, 'and you come with introductions from
Xavier Dubois! _C'est drole, ca._ Have you studied art?'
He laughed.
'No--except in books.'
'What books?'
'Novels--George Sand's.'
It was her turn to laugh now.
'You are really too amusing! No, Monsieur, no; you interest me.
I have the best will in the world towards you; but I cannot ask
Consuelos and Teverinos to meet you. _Pas possible._ I regret--'
She fell into silence a moment, studying him with a merry look.
Then she broke out again.
'Are you a connoisseur in pictures, Monsieur?'
He had reddened already under her _persiflage._ At this he
grew redder still.
'I have never seen any, Mademoiselle,' he said, almost piteously;
'except once a little exhibition in Manchester.'
'Nor sculpture?'
'No,' he said honestly; 'nor sculpture.'
It seemed to him he was being held under a microscope, so keen and
pitiless were her laughing eyes. But she left him no time to resent
it.
'So you are a blank page, Monsieur--virgin soil--and you confess
it. You interest me extremely. I should even like to teach you a
little. I am the most ignorant person in the world. I know nothing
about artists in books. _Mais je suis artiste, moi! fille
d'artiste._ I could tell you tales--'
She threw her graceful head back against the cushion behind her,
and smiled again broadly, as though her sense of humour were
irresistibly tickled by the situation.
Then a whim seized her, and she sat up, grave and eager.
'I have drawn since I was eight years old,' she said; 'would you
like to hear about it? It is not romantic--not the least in the
world--but it is true.'
And with what seemed to his foreign ear a marvellous swiftness and
fertility of phrase, she poured out her story. After her mother
died she had been sent at eight years old to board at a farm near
Rouen by her father, who seemed to have regarded his daughter now
as plaything and model, now as an intolerable drag on the freedom
of a vicious career. And at the farm the child's gift declared
itself. She began with copying the illustrations, the saints and
holy families in a breviary belonging to one of the farm servants;
she went on to draw the lambs, the carts, the horses, the farm
buildings, on any piece of white wood she could find littered about
the yard, or any bit of paper saved from a parcel, till at last the
old cure took pity upon her and gave her some chalks and a
drawing-book. At fourteen her father, for a caprice, reclaimed her,
and she found herself alone with him in Paris. To judge from the
hints she threw out, her life during thee next few years had been
of the roughest and wildest, protected only by her indomitable
resolve to learn, to make herself an artist, come what would. 'I
meant to be _famous_, and I mean it still!' she said, with a
passionate emphasis which made David open his eyes. Her father
refused to believe in her gift, and was far too self-indulgent and
brutal to teach her. But some of his artist friends were kind to
her, and taught her intermittently; by the help of some of them she
got permission, although under age, to copy in the Louvre, and with
hardly any technical knowledge worked there feverishly from morning
to night; and at last Taranne--the great Taranne, from whose
_atelier_ so many considerable artists had gone out to the
conquest of the public--Taranne had seen some of her drawings,
heard her story, and generously taken her as a pupil.
Then emulation took hold of her--the fierce desire to be first in
all the competitions of the _atelier_. David had the greatest
difficulty in following her rapid speech, with its slang, its
technical idioms, its extravagance and variety; but he made out
that she had been for a long time deficient in sound training, and
that her rivals at the _atelier_ had again and again beaten
her easily in spite of her gift, because of her weakness in the
grammar of her art.
'And whenever they beat me I could have killed my conquerors; and
whenever I beat them, I despised my judges and wanted to give the
prize away. It is not my fault. _Je suis faite comme ça--voilà!
_ I am as vain as a peacock; yet when people admire anything I
do, I think them fools--_fools!_ I am jealous and proud and
absurd--so they all say; yet a word, a look from a real
artist--from one of the great men who _know_--can break me,
make me cry. _Demelez ca, Monsieur, si vous pouvez!_'
She stopped, out of breath. Their eyes were on each other. The
fascination, the absorption expressed in the Englishman's look
startled her. She hurriedly turned away, took up her cigarette
again, and nestled into the cushion. He vainly tried to clothe some
of the quick comments running through his mind in adequate French,
could find nothing but the most commonplace phrases, stammered out
a few, and then blushed afresh. In her pity for him she took up her
story again.
After her father's sudden death, the shelter, such as it was, of
his name and companionship was withdrawn. What was she to do? It
turned out that she possessed a small _rente_ which had belonged to
her mother, and which her father had never been able to squander.
Two relations from her mother's country near Bordeaux turned up to
claim her, a country doctor and his sister--middle-aged, devout--to
her wild eyes at least, altogether forbidding.
'They made too much of their self-sacrifice in taking me to live
with them,' she said with her little ringing laugh. 'I said to
them--"My good uncle and aunt, it is too much--no one could have
the right to lay such a burden upon you. Go home and forget me. I
am incorrigible. I am an artist. I mean to live by myself, and work
for myself. I am sure to go to the bad--good morning." They went
home and told the rest of my mother's people that I was insane. But
they could not keep my money from me. It is just enough for me.
Besides, I shall be selling soon,--certainly I shall be selling! I
have had two or three inquiries already about one of the exhibits
in the Salon. Now then--_talk_, Monsieur David!' and she
emphasised the words by a little frown; 'it is your turn.'
And gradually by skill and patience she made him talk, made him
give her back some of her confidences. It seemed to amuse her
greatly that he should be a bookseller. She knew no booksellers in
Paris; she could assure him they were all pure _bourgeois_,
and there was not one of them that could be likened to Donatello's
David. Manchester she had scarcely heard of; she shook her fair
head over it. But when he told her of his French reading, when he
waxed eloquent about Rousseau and George Sand, then her mirth
became uncontrollable.
'You came to France to talk of Rousseau and George Sand?' she asked
him with dancing eyes--'_Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!_ what do you
take us for?'
This time his vanity was hurt. He asked her to tell him what she
meant--why she laughed at him.
'I will do better than that,' she said; 'I will get some friend of
mine to take you to-morrow to "Les Trois Rats."'
'What is "Les Trois Rats"?' he asked, half wounded and half
mystified.
'"Les Trois Rats," Monsieur, is an artist's cafe. It is famous, it
is characteristic; if you are in search of local colour you must
certainly go there. When you come back you will have some fresh
ideas, I promise you.'
He asked if ladies also went there.
'Some do; I don't. Conventions mean nothing to me, as you perceive,
or I should have a companion here to play propriety. But like you,
perhaps, I am Romantic. I believe in the grand style. I have ideas
as to how men should treat me. I can read Octave Feuillet. I have a
terrible weakness for those _cavaliers_ of his. And garbage
makes me ill. So I avoid the "Trois Rats."'
She fell silent, resting her little chin on her hand. Then with a
sudden sly smile she bent forward and looked him in the eyes.
'Are you pious, Monsieur, like all the English? There is some
religion left in your country, isn't there?'
'Yes, certainly,' he admitted, 'there was a good deal.'
Then, hesitating, he described his own early reading of Voltaire,
watching its effect upon her, afraid lest here too he should say
something fatuous, behind the time, as he seemed to have been doing
all through.
'Voltaire!'--she shrugged her little shoulders--'Voltaire to me is
just an old _perruque_--a prating philanthropical person who talked
about _le bon Dieu_, and wrote just what every _bourgeois_ can
understand. If he had had his will and swept away the clergy and
the Church, how many fine subjects we artists should have lost!'
He sat helplessly staring at her. She enjoyed his perplexity a
minute; then she returned to the charge.
'Well, my credo is very short. Its first article is art--and its
second is art--and its third is art!'
Her words excited her. The delicate colour flushed into her cheek.
She flung her head back and looked straight before her with
half-shut eyes.
'Yes--I believe in art--and expression--and colour--and _le
vrai_. Velazquez is my God, and--and he has too many prophets to
mention! I was devout once for three months--since then I have
never had as much faith of the Church sort as would lie on a
ten-sous piece. But'--with a sudden whimsical change of voice--'I
am as credulous as a Breton fisherman, and as superstitious as a
gipsy! Wait and see. Will you look at my pictures?'
She sprang up and showed her sketches. She had been a winter in
Algiers, and had there and in Spain taken a passion for the East,
for its colour, its mystery, its suggestions of cruelty and
passion. She chattered away, explaining, laughing, haranguing, and
David followed her submissively from thing to thing, dumb with the
interest and curiosity of this new world and language of the
artist.
Louie meanwhile, who, after the refreshment of supper, had been
forgetting both her fatigue and the other two in the entertainment
provided her by the shoes and the Oriental dresses, had now found a
little inlaid coffer on a distant table, full of Algerian trinkets,
and was examining them. Suddenly a loud crash was heard from her
neighbourhood.
Elise Delaunay stood still. Her quick speech, died on her lips. She
made one bound forward to Louie; then, with a cry, she turned
deathly pale, tottered, and would have fallen, but that David ran
to her.
'The glass is broken,' she said, or rather gasped; 'she has broken
it--that old Venetian glass of Maman's. Oh! my pictures!--my pictures!
How can I undo it? _Je suis perdue_! Oh go!--go!--_go_--both of you!
Leave me alone! Why did I ever see you?'
She was beside herself with rage and terror. She laid hold of
Louie, who stood in sullen awkwardness and dismay, and pushed her
to the door so suddenly and so violently that the stronger, taller
girl yielded without an attempt at resistance. Then holding the
door open, she beckoned imperiously to David, while the tears
streamed down her cheeks.
'Adieu, Monsieur--say nothing--there is nothing to be said--go!'
He went out bewildered, and the two in their amazement walked
mechanically to their own door.
'She is mad!' said Louie, her eyes blazing, when they paused and
looked at each other. 'She must be mad. What did she say?'
'What happened?' was all he could reply.
'I threw down that old glass--it wasn't my fault--I didn't see it.
It was standing on the floor against a chair. I moved the chair
back just a trifle, and it fell. A shabby old thing--I could have
paid for another easily. Well, I'm not going there again to be
treated like that.'
The girl was furious. All that chafed sense of exclusion and
slighted importance which had grown upon her during David's
_tete-a-tete_ with their strange hostess came to violent
expression in her resentment. She opened the door of their room,
saying that whatever he might do she was going to bed and to sleep
somewhere, if it was on the floor.
David made a melancholy light in the squalid room, and Louie went
about her preparations in angry silence. When she had withdrawn
into the little cupboard-room, saying carelessly that she supposed
he could manage with one of the bags and his great coat, he sat
down on the edge of the bare iron bedstead, and recognised with a
start that he was quivering all over--with fatigue, or excitement?
His chief feeling perhaps was one of utter discomfiture, flatness,
and humiliation.
He had sat there in the dark without moving for some minutes, when
his ear caught a low uncertain tapping at the door. His heart
leapt. He sprang up and turned the key in an instant.
There on the landing stood Elise Delaunay, her arms filled with
what looked like a black bearskin rug, her small tremulous face and
tear-wet eyes raised to his.
'_Pardon_, Monsieur,' she said hurriedly. 'I told you I was
superstitious--well, now you see. Will you take this rug?--one can
sleep anywhere with it though it is so old. And has your sister
what she wants? Can I do anything for her? No! _Alors_--I must
talk to you about her in the morning. I have some more things in my
head to say. _Pardon!--et bonsoir. '_
She pushed the rug into his hands. He was so moved that he let it
drop on the floor unheeding, and as she looked at him, half
audacious, half afraid, she saw a painful struggle, as of some
strange new birth, pass across his dark young face. They stood so a
moment, looking at each other. Then he made a quick step forward
with some inarticulate words. In an instant she was halfway along
the corridor, and, turning back so that her fair hair and smiling
eyes caught the light she held, she said to him with the queenliest
gesture of dismissal:
'_Au revoir_, Monsieur David, sleep well.'