Part 2 (2/2)
Every one, even Herkimer, agreed that Rantoul was the luckiest man in Paris; that he had found just the wife who was suited to him, whose fortune would open every opportunity for his genius to develop.
”In the first place,” said Bennett, when the group had returned to Herkimer's studio to continue the celebration, ”let me remark that in general I don't approve of marriage for an artist.”
”Nor I,” cried Chatterton, and the chorus answered, ”Nor I.”
”I shall never marry,” continued Bennett.
”Never,” cried Chatterton, who beat a tattoo on the piano with his heel to accompany the chorus of a.s.sent.
”But--I add but--in this case my opinion is that Rantoul has found a pure diamond.”
”True!”
”In the first place, she knows nothing at all about art, which is an enormous advantage.”
”Bravo!”
”In the second place, she knows nothing about anything else, which is better still.”
”Cynic! You hate clever women,” cried Jacobus.
”There's a reason.”
”All the same, Bennett's right. The wife of an artist should be a creature of impulses and not ideas.”
”True.”
”In the third place,” continued Bennett, ”she believes Rantoul is a demiG.o.d. Everything he will do will be the most wonderful thing in the world, and to have a little person you are madly in love with think that is enormous.”
”All of which is not very complimentary to the bride,” said Herkimer.
”Find me one like her,” cried Bennett.
”Ditto,” said Chatterton and Jacobus with enthusiasm.
”There is only one thing that worries me,” said Bennett, seriously.
”Isn't there too much money?”
”Not for Rantoul.”
”He's a rebel.”
”You'll see; he'll stir up the world with it.”
Herkimer himself had approved of the marriage in a whole-hearted way.
The childlike ways of Tina Glover had convinced him, and as he was concerned only with the future of his friend, he agreed with the rest that nothing luckier could have happened.
Three years pa.s.sed, during which he received occasional letters from his old chum, not quite so spontaneous as he had expected, but filled with the wonder of the ancient worlds. Then the intervals became longer, and longer, and finally no letters came.
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