VII.

Mildred worked hard in the studio. She was always one of the first to

arrive, and she did not leave till the model had finished sitting, and

during the eight hours, interrupted only by an hour in the middle of

the day for lunch, she applied herself to her drawing, eschewing

conversation with the students, whether French or English. She did not

leave her easel when the model rested; she waited patiently sharpening

her pencils or reading--she never came to the studio unprovided with a

book. And she made a pretty picture sitting on her high stool, and the

students often sketched her during the rests. Although quietly, she

was always beautifully dressed. Simple though they appeared to be, her

black _crepe de chine_ skirts told of large sums of money spent in

fashionable millinery establishments, and her large hats profusely

trimmed with ostrich feathers, which suited her so well, contrasted

strangely with the poor head-gear of the other girls; and when the

weather grew warmer she appeared in a charming shot silk grey and

pink, and a black straw hat lightly trimmed with red flowers. In

answer to Elsie, who had said that she looked as if she were going to

a garden-party, Mildred said:

'I don't see why, because you're an artist, you should be a slattern.

I don't feel comfortable in a dirty dress. It makes me feel quite

ill.'

Although Mildred was constantly with Elsie and Cissy she never seemed

to be of their company; and seeing them sitting together in the

_Bouillon Duval_, at their table next the window, an observer would be

sure to wonder what accident had sent out that rare and subtle girl

with such cheerful commonness as Elsie and Cissy. The contrast was

even more striking when they entered the eating-house, Mildred looking

a little annoyed, and always forgetful of the tariff card which she

should take from the door-keeper. Elsie and Cissy triumphant, making

for the staircase, as Mildred said to herself, 'with a flourish of

cards.' Mildred instinctively hated the _Bouillon Duval_, and only

went there because her friends could not afford a restaurant. The

traffic of the _Bouillon_ disgusted her; the food, she admitted, was

well enough, but, as she said, it was mealing--feeding like an animal

in a cage,--not dining or breakfasting. Very often she protested.

'Oh, nonsense,' said Cissy, 'we shall get one of Catherine's tables if

we make haste.'

Catherine was their favourite waitress. Like a hen she seemed to have

taken them under her protection. And she told them what were the best

dishes, and devoted a large part of her time to attending on them. She

liked Mildred especially; she paid her compliments and so became a

contrary influence in Mildred's dislike of the _Bouillon_. She seemed

to understand them thoroughly from the first. Elsie and Cissy she knew

would eat everything, they were never without their appetites, but

Mildred very often said she could eat nothing. Then Catherine would

come to the rescue with a tempting suggestion, _Une belle aile de

poulet avec sauce remoulade_. 'Well, perhaps I could pick a bone,'

Mildred would answer, and these wings of chicken seemed to her the

best she had ever eaten. She liked the tiny strawberries which were

beginning to come into season; she liked _les petites suisses_; and

she liked the chatter of her friends, and her own chatter across the

little marble table. She thought that she had never enjoyed talking so

much before.

One evening, as they stirred their coffee, Elsie said, looking down

the street, 'What a pretty effect.'

Mildred leaned over her friend's shoulder and saw the jagged outline

of the street and a spire beautiful in the sunset. She was annoyed

that she had not first discovered the picturesqueness of the

perspective, and, when Elsie sketched the street on the marble table,

she felt that she would never be able to draw like that.

The weather grew warmer, and, in June, M. Daveau and three or four of

the leading students proposed that they should make up a party to

spend Sunday at Bas Mendon. To arrive at Bas Mendon in time for

breakfast they would have to catch the ten o'clock boat from the Pont

Neuf. Cissy, Elsie, and Mildred were asked: there were no French girls

to ask, so, as Elsie said, 'they'd have the men to themselves.'

The day impressed itself singularly on Mildred's mind. She never

forgot the drive to the Pont Neuf in the early morning, the sunshine

had seemed especially lovely; she did not forget her fear lest she

should be late--she was only just in time; they were waiting for her,

their paint-boxes slung over their shoulders, and the boat was moving

alongside as she ran down the steps. She did not forget M. Daveau's

black beard; she saw it and remembered it long afterwards. But she

never could recall her impressions of the journey--she only remembered

that it had seemed a long while, and that she was very hungry when

they arrived. She remembered the trellis and the boiled eggs and the

cutlets, and that after breakfast M. Daveau had painted a high

stairway that led to the top of the hill and she remembered how she

had stood behind him wondering at the ease with which he drew in the

steps. In the evening there had been a little exhibition of sketches,

and in the boat going home he had talked to her; and she had enjoyed

talking to him. Of his conversation she only recalled one sentence.

She had asked him if he liked classical music, and he had answered,

'There is no music except classical music.' And it was this chance

phrase that made the day memorable; its very sententiousness had

pleased her; in that calm bright evening she had realised and it had

helped her to realise that there existed a higher plane of

appreciation and feeling than that on which her mind moved.

At the end of July, Elsie and Cissy spoke of going into the country,

and they asked Mildred to come with them. Barbizon was a village close

to the Forest of Fontainebleau. There was an inn where they would be

comfortable: all the clever young fellows went to Barbizon for the

summer. But Mildred thought that on the whole it would be better for

her to continue working in the studio without interruption. Elsie and

Cissy did not agree with her. They told her that she would find the

studio almost deserted and quite intolerable in August. Bad tobacco,

drains, and Italian models--Faugh! But their description of what the

studio would become in the hot weather did not stir Mildred's

resolution. M. Daveau had told her that landscape painting would come

to her very easily when she had learnt to draw, and that the way to

learn to draw was to draw from the nude. So she bore with the heat and

the smells for eight hours a day. There were but four or five other

pupils beside herself; this was an advantage in a way, but these few

were not inclined for work; idleness is contagious, and Mildred

experienced much difficulty in remaining at her easel.

In the evenings her only distraction was to go for a drive with Mrs.

Fargus. But too often Mrs. Fargus could not leave her husband, and

these evenings Mildred spent in reading or in writing letters. The

dullness of her life and the narrowness and aridity of her

acquaintance induced her to write very often to Ralph, and depression

of spirits often tempted her to express herself more affectionately

than she would have done in wider and pleasanter circumstances. She

once spoke of the pleasure it would give her to see him, she said that

she would like to see him walk into the studio. But when he took her

at her word and she saw him draw aside the curtain and look in, a

cloud of annoyance gathered on her face. But she easily assumed her

pretty mysterious smile and said:

'When did you arrive?'

'Only this morning. You said you'd like to see me. I had to come.... I

hope you are not angry.'

Then noticing that the girl next them was an English girl, Ralph spoke

about Mildred's drawing. She did not like him to see it, but he asked

her for the charcoal and said if she would give him her place he would

see if he could find out what was wrong; he did not think she had got

enough movement into the figure.

'Ah, that's what the professor says when he comes round _toujours un

peu froid comme mouvement._ I can get the proportions; it is the

movement that bothers me.'

'Movement is drawing in the real sense of the word. If they would only

teach you to draw by the movement.'

He continued to correct Mildred's drawing for some time. When he laid

down the charcoal, he said:

'How hot it is here! I wonder how you can bear it.'

'Yes, the heat is dreadful. I'm too exhausted to do much work.

Supposing we go out.'

They went downstairs and some way along the Passage des Panoramas

without speaking. At last Mildred said:

'Are you going to be in Paris for long?'

'No, I'm going back at once, perhaps to-morrow. You know I've a lot of

work on hand. I'm getting on, luck has turned. I've sold several

pictures. I must get back.'

'Why, to-morrow?--it was hardly worth while coming for so short a

time.'

'I only came to see you. You know I couldn't--you know--I mean that I

felt that I must see you.'

Mildred looked up, it was an affectionate glance; and she swung her

parasol in a way that recalled their walks in the Green Park. They

passed out of the _passage_ into the boulevard. As they crossed the

Rue Vivienne, Ralph said in his abrupt fragmentary way:

'You said you'd like to see me, I could see from your letters that you

were unhappy.'

'No, I'm not unhappy--a little dull at times, that is all.'

'You wrote me some charming letters. I hope you meant all you said.'

'Did I say so much, then? I daresay I said more than I intended.'

'No, don't say that, don't say that.'

The absinthe drinkers, the green trees, the blue roofs of the great

houses, all these signs of the boulevard, intruded upon and

interrupted their thoughts; then the boulevard passed out of their

sight and they were again conscious of nothing but each other.

'I met your brother. He was anxious about you. He wondered if you were

getting on and I said that I'd go and see.'

'And do you think I'm getting on?'

Yes, I think you've made progress. You couldn't have done that

drawing before you went to Paris.'

'You really think so.... I was right to go to Paris.... I must show

you my other drawings. I've some better than that.'

The artistic question was discussed till they reached the Place de

l'Opera.

'That is the opera-house,' Mildred said, 'and that is the Cafe de la

Paix.... You haven't been to Paris before?'

'No; this is my first visit. But I didn't come to Paris to see Paris.

I came to see you. I could not help myself. Your letters were so

charming. I have read them over a thousand times. I couldn't go on

reading them without seeing you.... I got afraid that you'd find some

one here you'd fall in love with. Some one whom you'd prefer to me.

Have you?'

'No; I don't know that I have.'

'Then why shouldn't we be married? That's what I've come to ask you.'

'You mean now, in Paris?'

'Why not? If you haven't met any one you like better, you know.'

'And give up my painting, and just at the time I'm beginning to get

on! You said I had improved in my drawing.'

'Ah, your drawing interests you more than I.'

'I'd give anything to draw like Misal. You don't know him--a student

of the _Beaux Arts._'

'When you'd learnt all he knows, you wouldn't be any nearer to

painting a picture.'

'That isn't very polite. You don't think much of my chances of

success.... But we shall see.'

'Mildred, you don't understand me. This is not fair to me. Only say

when you'll marry me, and I'll wait, I'll wait, yes, as long as you

like--only fix a time.'

'When I've learnt to draw.'

'You're laughing at me.'

Her face darkened, and they did not speak again till the green roof of

the Madeleine appeared, striking sharp against a piece of blue sky.

Mildred said:

'This is my way,' and she turned to the right.

'You take offence without cause. When you have learnt to draw! We're

always learning to draw. No one has ever learnt to draw perfectly.'

'I have no other answer.'

'Mildred, this isn't fair.'

'If you're not satisfied I release you from your engagement. Yes, I

release you from your engagement.'

'Mildred, you're cruel. You seem to take pleasure in torturing me. But

this cannot be. I cannot live without you. What am I to do?'

'You must try.'

'No, I shall not try,' he answered sullenly.

'What will you do?'

'My plans are made. I shall not live.'

'Oh, Ralph, you will not kill yourself. It would not be worth while.

You've your art to live for. You are--how old are you--thirty? You're

no longer a sentimental boy. You've got your man's life to lead. You

must think of it.'

'I don't feel as if I could. Life seems impossible.'

She looked into his pale gentle eyes and the thought crossed her mind

that his was perhaps one of those narrow, gentle natures that cannot

outlive such a disappointment as she intended to inflict. It would be

very terrible if he did commit suicide, the object of his visit to

Paris would transpire. But no, he would not commit suicide, she was

quite safe, and on that thought she said:

'I cannot remain out any longer.'