Part 1 (2/2)
”I am he, sir.”
He bowed once more, giving his own name:
”Baron Frederick Van Spreckdal.”
The appearance in my poor hovel of the rich art collector Van Spreckdal, a judge in the criminal court, made a strong impression on me. I could not stop myself from casting a surrept.i.tious glance at my old worm-eaten furniture, my damp tapestries and my dusty floor. I felt humiliated by such a squalid state of affairs... But Van Spreckdal did not seem to pay any attention to these things and promptly sat down at my little table:
”Mister Venius,” he went on, ”I've come to...”
But, just then, his eyes came to rest on the incomplete sketch....
he failed to finish his sentence. I had seated myself on the edge of the truckle bed and the sudden attention given by this person to one of my works made my heart beat faster with a feeling of apprehension that was difficult to define.
After a minute Van Spreckdal raised his head:
”Are you the author of this sketch?” he asked, now giving me his undivided attention.
”Yes, sir.”
”What are you asking for it?”
”I don't sell my sketches... It's the rough draft for a picture.”
”I see,” he said, lifting up the paper with the tips of his long yellow fingers. He took a magnifying gla.s.s from his waistcoat pocket and started to study the drawing in silence.
The sun's rays were, at this time of day, falling obliquely into my garret. Van Spreckdal did not breathe a word; his big nose curved into a claw, his thick eyebrows contracted, and his protruding chin created a thousand wrinkles in his long sunken cheeks. The silence was so impenetrable that I could hear quite distinctly the plaintive buzzing of a fly caught in a spider's web.
”And how big is this picture going to be, Mister Venius?” he said without even looking at me.
”Three feet by four feet.”
”What will you charge for the picture?”
”Fifty ducats.”
Van Spreckdal placed the drawing on the table and took out of his pocket a drooping green silk purse, elongated into the shape of a pear. He slid the rings in order to open it.
”Fifty ducats then,” he said. ”There you have them.”
I went dizzy.
The baron got up, said goodbye to me and I heard his great ivory- handled cane knock against each step till he finally came to the bottom of the stairs. Then, waking up from my temporary stupor, I suddenly remembered that I had not thanked him, and I ran down those four flights of stairs as quick as a flash. But, when I got to the door, it was in vain that I looked both right and left - the street was deserted.
”Well! Fancy that!” I said to myself. ”Here's a how-d'you-do!”
And I went back up the stairs quite out of breath.
II
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