He asked if ladies also went there.
"Some do; I don"t. Conventions mean nothing to me, as you perceive, or I should have a companion here to play propriety. But like you, perhaps, I am Romantic. I believe in the grand style. I have ideas as to how men should treat me. I can read Octave Feuillet. I have a terrible weakness for those _cavaliers_ of his. And garbage makes me ill. So I avoid the "Trois Rats.""
She fell silent, resting her little chin on her hand. Then with a sudden sly smile she bent forward and looked him in the eyes.
"Are you pious, Monsieur, like all the English? There is some religion left in your country, isn"t there?"
"Yes, certainly," he admitted, "there was a good deal."
Then, hesitating, he described his own early reading of Voltaire, watching its effect upon her, afraid lest here too he should say something fatuous, behind the time, as he seemed to have been doing all through.
"Voltaire!"--she shrugged her little shoulders--"Voltaire to me is just an old _perruque_--a prating philanthropical person who talked about _le bon Dieu_, and wrote just what every _bourgeois_ can understand. If he had had his will and swept away the clergy and the Church, how many fine subjects we artists should have lost!"
He sat helplessly staring at her. She enjoyed his perplexity a minute; then she returned to the charge.
"Well, my credo is very short. Its first article is art--and its second is art--and its third is art!"
Her words excited her. The delicate colour flushed into her cheek.
She flung her head back and looked straight before her with half-shut eyes.
"Yes--I believe in art--and expression--and colour--and _le vrai_. Velazquez is my G.o.d, and--and he has too many prophets to mention! I was devout once for three months--since then I have never had as much faith of the Church sort as would lie on a ten-sous piece. But"--with a sudden whimsical change of voice--"I am as credulous as a Breton fisherman, and as superst.i.tious as a gipsy! Wait and see. Will you look at my pictures?"
She sprang up and showed her sketches. She had been a winter in Algiers, and had there and in Spain taken a pa.s.sion for the East, for its colour, its mystery, its suggestions of cruelty and pa.s.sion. She chattered away, explaining, laughing, haranguing, and David followed her submissively from thing to thing, dumb with the interest and curiosity of this new world and language of the artist.
Louie meanwhile, who, after the refreshment of supper, had been forgetting both her fatigue and the other two in the entertainment provided her by the shoes and the Oriental dresses, had now found a little inlaid coffer on a distant table, full of Algerian trinkets, and was examining them. Suddenly a loud crash was heard from her neighbourhood.
Elise Delaunay stood still. Her quick speech, died on her lips. She made one bound forward to Louie; then, with a cry, she turned deathly pale, tottered, and would have fallen, but that David ran to her.
"The gla.s.s is broken," she said, or rather gasped; "she has broken it--that old Venetian gla.s.s of Maman"s. Oh! my pictures!--my pictures!
How can I undo it? _Je suis perdue_! Oh go!--go!--_go_--both of you!
Leave me alone! Why did I ever see you?"
She was beside herself with rage and terror. She laid hold of Louie, who stood in sullen awkwardness and dismay, and pushed her to the door so suddenly and so violently that the stronger, taller girl yielded without an attempt at resistance. Then holding the door open, she beckoned imperiously to David, while the tears streamed down her cheeks.
"Adieu, Monsieur--say nothing--there is nothing to be said--go!"
He went out bewildered, and the two in their amazement walked mechanically to their own door.
"She is mad!" said Louie, her eyes blazing, when they paused and looked at each other. "She must be mad. What did she say?"
"What happened?" was all he could reply.
"I threw down that old gla.s.s--it wasn"t my fault--I didn"t see it.
It was standing on the floor against a chair. I moved the chair back just a trifle, and it fell. A shabby old thing--I could have paid for another easily. Well, I"m not going there again to be treated like that."
The girl was furious. All that chafed sense of exclusion and slighted importance which had grown upon her during David"s _tete-a-tete_ with their strange hostess came to violent expression in her resentment. She opened the door of their room, saying that whatever he might do she was going to bed and to sleep somewhere, if it was on the floor.
David made a melancholy light in the squalid room, and Louie went about her preparations in angry silence. When she had withdrawn into the little cupboard-room, saying carelessly that she supposed he could manage with one of the bags and his great coat, he sat down on the edge of the bare iron bedstead, and recognised with a start that he was quivering all over--with fatigue, or excitement?
His chief feeling perhaps was one of utter discomfiture, flatness, and humiliation.
He had sat there in the dark without moving for some minutes, when his ear caught a low uncertain tapping at the door. His heart leapt. He sprang up and turned the key in an instant.
There on the landing stood Elise Delaunay, her arms filled with what looked like a black bearskin rug, her small tremulous face and tear-wet eyes raised to his.
"_Pardon_, Monsieur," she said hurriedly. "I told you I was superst.i.tious--well, now you see. Will you take this rug?--one can sleep anywhere with it though it is so old. And has your sister what she wants? Can I do anything for her? No! _Alors_--I must talk to you about her in the morning. I have some more things in my head to say. _Pardon!--et bonsoir. "_
She pushed the rug into his hands. He was so moved that he let it drop on the floor unheeding, and as she looked at him, half audacious, half afraid, she saw a painful struggle, as of some strange new birth, pa.s.s across his dark young face. They stood so a moment, looking at each other. Then he made a quick step forward with some inarticulate words. In an instant she was halfway along the corridor, and, turning back so that her fair hair and smiling eyes caught the light she held, she said to him with the queenliest gesture of dismissal:
"_Au revoir_, Monsieur David, sleep well."
CHAPTER III
David woke early from a restless sleep. He sprang up and dressed.
Never had the May sun shone so brightly; never had life looked more alluring.
In the first place he took care to profit by the hints of the night before. He ran down to make friends with Madame Merichat--a process which was accomplished without much difficulty, as soon as a franc or two had pa.s.sed, and arrangements had been made for the pa.s.sing of a few more. She was to take charge of the _appartement_, and provide them with their morning coffee and bread. And upon this her grim countenance cleared. She condescended to spend a quarter of an hour gossiping with the Englishman, and she promised to stand as a buffer between him and Dubois" irate landlord.
"A job of work at Brussels, you say, Monsieur? _Bien_; I will tell the _proprietaire_. He won"t believe it--Monsieur Dubois tells too many lies; but perhaps it will keep him quiet. He will think of the return--of the money in the pocket. He will bid me inform him the very moment Monsieur Dubois shows his nose, that he may descend upon him, and so you will be let alone."
He mounted the stairs again, and stood a moment looking along the pa.s.sage with a quickening pulse. There was a sound of low singing, as of one crooning over some occupation. It must be she! Then she had recovered her trouble of the night before--her strange trouble.
Yet he dimly remembered that in the farm-houses of the Peak also the breaking of a looking-gla.s.s had been held to be unlucky. And, of course, in interpreting the omen she had thought of her pictures and the jury.
How could he see her again? Suddenly it occurred to him that she had spoken of taking a holiday since the Salon opened. A holiday which for her meant "copying in the Louvre." And where else, pray, does the tourist naturally go on the first morning of a visit to Paris?
The young fellow went back into his room with a radiant face, and spent some minutes, as Louie had not yet appeared, in elaborating his toilette. The small cracked gla.s.s above the mantelpiece was not flattering, and David was almost for the first time anxious about and attentive to what he saw there. Yet, on the whole, he was pleased with his short serge coat and his new tie. He thought they gave him something of a student air, and would not disgrace even _her_ should she deign to be seen in his company. As he laid his brush down he looked at his own brown hand, and remembered hers with a kind of wonder--so small and white, the wrist so delicately rounded.
When Louie emerged she was not in a good temper. She declared that she had hardly slept a wink; that the bed was not fit to sleep on; that the cupboard was alive with mice, and smelt intolerably. David first endeavoured to appease her with the coffee and rolls which had just arrived, and then he broached the plan of sending her to board with the Cervins, which Mademoiselle Delaunay had suggested.
What did she think? It would cost more, perhaps, but he could afford it. On their way out he would deliver the two notes of introduction, and no doubt they could settle it directly if she liked.
Louie yawned, put up objections, and refused to see anything in a promising light. Paris was horrid, and the man who had let them the rooms ought to be "had up." As for people who couldn"t talk any English she hated the sight of them.
The remark from an Englishwoman in France had its humour. But David did not see that point of it. He flushed hotly, and with difficulty held an angry tongue. However, he was possessed with an inward dread--the dread of the idealist who sees his pleasure as a beautiful whole--lest they should so quarrel as to spoil the visit and the new experience. Under this curb he controlled himself, and presently, with more _savoir vivre_ than he was conscious of, proposed that they should go out and see the shops.
Louie, at the mere mention of shops, pa.s.sed into another mood.
After she had spent some time on dressing they sallied forth, David delivering his notes on the way down. Both noticed that the house was squalid and ill-kept, but apparently full of inhabitants. David surmised that they were for the most part struggling persons of small means and extremely various occupations. There were three _ateliers_ in the building, the two on their own top floor, and M. Montjoie"s, which was apparently built out at the back on the ground floor. The first floor was occupied by a dressmaker, the _proprietaires_ best tenant, according to Madame Merichat.
Above her was a clerk in the Ministry of the Interior, with his wife and two or three children; above them again the Cervins, and a couple of commercial travellers, and so on.
The street outside, in its general aspect, suggested the same small, hard-pressed professional life. It was narrow and dull; it mounted abruptly towards the hill of Montmartre, with its fort and cemetery, and, but for the height of the houses, which is in itself a dignified architectural feature, would have been no more inspiriting than a street in London.
A few steps, however, brought them on to the Boulevard Montmartre, and then, taking the Rue Lafitte, they emerged upon the Boulevard des Italiens.
Louie looked round her, to this side and that, paused for a moment, bewildered as it were by the general movement and gaiety of the scene. Then a _lingerie_ shop caught her eye, and she made for it. Soon the last cloud had cleared from the girl"s brow. She gave herself with ecstasy to the shops, to the people. What jewellery, what dresses, what delicate cobwebs of lace and ribbon, what miracles of colour in the florists" windows, what suggestions of wealth and lavishness everywhere! Here in this world of costly contrivance, of an eager and inventive luxury, Louise Suveret"s daughter felt herself at last at home. She had never set foot in it before; yet already it was familiar, and she was part of it.
Yes, she was as well dressed as anybody, she concluded, except perhaps the ladies in the closed carriages whose dress could only be guessed at. As for good looks, there did not seem to be much of _them_ in Paris. She called the Frenchwomen downright plain.
They knew how to put on their clothes; there was style about them, she did not deny that; but she was prepared to maintain that there was hardly a decent face among them.