Part 15 (1/2)
”Yet you, sir, look pale, and your friend”--her forehead puckered--”told me that you had been ill.”
”My friend?” He spoke as if he had none in the world, though now he knew better.
”Yes: such a pleasant old gentleman with gray hair and gla.s.ses. As I came in half an hour ago, I met him on the stairs.”
”Fourget!”
”Was that his name? He seemed most anxious about you.”
”He is my friend.”
”I like him,” said the Lady of the Rose.
”Then you understand him. I didn't understand him--till this morning.
He is an art-dealer: those that he won't buy from think him hard; the friends of those that he buys from think him a fool.”
Although he had rea.s.sured her of his health, she seemed charmingly willing to linger. Really, she was looking at Cartaret's haggard cheeks with a wonderful sympathy.
”So he bought from you?”
Cartaret nodded.
”Only I hope _you_ won't think him a fool,” he said.
”I shall consider,” she laughed. ”I must first see some of your work, sir.”
She came farther into the room. She moved with an easy dignity, her advance into the light displaying the lines of her gracile figure, the turn of her head discovering the young curve of her throat; her eyes, as they moved about his studio, were clear and starry.
In the presence of their original, Cartaret had forgotten the portraits. Now she saw them and turned scarlet.
It was a time for no more pride on the part of the painter: already, head high in air, she had turned to go. It was a time for honest dealing. Cartaret barred her way.
”Forgive me!” he cried. ”Won't you please forgive me?”
She tried to pa.s.s him without a word.
”But listen. Only listen a minute! You didn't think--oh, you didn't think I'd sold him one of those? They were on the wall when he came in, and I couldn't get them away in time. I'd put them up--Well, I'd put them up there because I--because I couldn't see you, so I wanted to see them.”
His voice trembled; he looked ill now: she hesitated.
”What right had you, sir, to paint them?”
”I don't know. I hadn't any. Of course, I hadn't any! But I wouldn't have sold them to the Luxembourg.”
What was it that Fourget had told her when he met her on the stair?--”Mademoiselle, you will pardon an old man: that Young Cartarette cannot paint pot-boilers, and in consequence he starves.
For more things than money, mademoiselle. But because he cannot paint pot-boilers and get money, he starves literally.”--Her heart smote her now, but she could not refrain from saying:
”Perhaps the Luxembourg did not offer--in the person of M. Fourget?”