Part 9 (1/2)
”Mere Perigord twenty times!” smiled Henriette.
Madame Ribot was appalled by the task, though she had seen and heard so much of Helen's charcoals. She and Henriette stood by perfunctorily, while Helen turned severe critic. None of them seemed good to her, as she thought of how they would look on a wall at an exhibition, with connoisseurs picking them to pieces.
”Oh, cusses! I can't do it! I never can!” she declared. ”My fate is to wear a white cap and feed people broth and keep their temperature chart in order!” She slapped one Mere Perigord in the face in disgust.
”Remember,” said Henriette, ”that charcoal is very limited.”
In the midst of the selection a limousine rolled up to the door and a roly-poly little man, with close-cropped beard and eyes as shrewd as Madame Ribot's own, alighted and sent in the card of ”M. Vailliant, Art Dealer.”
Madame Ribot received him. As he entered the room Henriette was standing by the near side of the table in front of Helen, in whose heart was great fear, any faith she might have had in her charcoals shrivelling in his presence. M. Vailliant bowed to both, his glance swiftly moving about the room as if counting the number of the scattered drawings; but to Henriette, whose beauty dominated her surroundings, he made a particularly low bow.
”Mademoiselle, I see that you are ready for me,” he said, with still another bow to Henriette. And Helen felt the shrivelling sensation more deeply.
”Both my daughters are artists, and one paints,” said Madame Ribot, with the reflection of pride in the tribute which M. Vailliant had instinctively paid to Henriette, some of whose paintings were on the walls. Indeed, they were everywhere about the chateau. ”I am rather fond of this one, myself,” she added, nodding toward a landscape which faced the dealer. It had had honourable mention at the Salon, but it had not sold.
Looking from Henriette to the picture and then back at Henriette, the art dealer breathed an ”Ah!” in a way that implied that a place in the Salon was the obvious one for Henriette.
”Naturally, I know of your work,” he said, with another bow.
”My daughter has never had an exhibition, though she has quite enough pictures now,” went on Madame Ribot. ”There are others in the next room. Perhaps you would like to see them, too.”
Most charming Madame Ribot was when she was interested in any purpose, and she led the way into the room, Henriette meantime standing in the doorway and studying M. Valliant's face. Helen remained beside her pile of charcoals, trying to resist the desire to fly to the fields away from the whole business. She could feel her heart pounding and her temples throbbing. When she had a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the mantelpiece she realised that it was from herself that she particularly wanted to escape.
”Excellent technique,” M. Vailliant remarked. ”But an exhibition of paintings--that is a great undertaking. One of the big houses will take you up one day and make your vogue. There is no hurry.”
”It was mother who was speaking of the exhibition, not I,” said Henriette casually. ”You came to see my sister's charcoals.”
”So I did,” agreed the dealer. ”Charcoals are more in keeping with the modest pretensions of my establishment. Quick returns and small profits, as they say at the Bon Marche.”
”You will stretch a point for her, won't you?” said Henriette, as she drew aside to allow him to return to the other room. ”She's worked so hard and it means so much to her.”
But Helen had overheard. A dash of red shot into her cheeks, as her shoulders gave a nervous shrug. The dealer looked from the beautiful to the plain girl with that sense of contrast between the two which Helen had felt a thousand times.
”Where do I begin?” he asked, almost perfunctorily.
Some one had told Helen that one should blow one's own trumpet to an art dealer; that many an artist had been started on a career by making the most of his personality. But when she was conscious of how poor her drawings were she could not play the herald of her own skill. As for personality, one must have something to start with.
”Those four I picked out for the least bad,” she said, handing them to him.
Not a sign on the dealer's face, as he looked them through, while her temples throbbed.
”More academic than the one I had seen--better drawing, but----” he shook his head.
The throbbing ceased. Helen knew the truth. There would be no exhibition. She felt faint; there was no heart left in her.
”And these?” asked M. Vailliant, looking at a time-coloured board on top of a pile on a chair.
”Discarded. They were too awful--some of them just dashed off for fun.”
”Oh!”
M. Vailliant spread his legs as he bent over the pile; he puffed out his lips and sucked them in, his only sign of emotion, as he began separating the drawings into two piles% Then he applied the same process to those on the table, without question or comment. Helen did not know what to make of him. She was dizzy with curiosity and hope.