by Henry James
CHAPTER IV
Early one morning, before Christopher Newman was dressed, a little oldman was ushered into his apartment, followed by a youth in a blouse,bearing a picture in a brilliant frame. Newman, among the distractionsof Paris, had forgotten M. Nioche and his accomplished daughter; butthis was an effective reminder.
“I am afraid you had given me up, sir,” said the old man, after manyapologies and salutations. “We have made you wait so many days. Youaccused us, perhaps, of inconstancy, of bad faith. But behold me atlast! And behold also the pretty Madonna. Place it on a chair, myfriend, in a good light, so that monsieur may admire it.” And M. Nioche,addressing his companion, helped him to dispose the work of art.
It had been endued with a layer of varnish an inch thick and its frame,of an elaborate pattern, was at least a foot wide. It glittered andtwinkled in the morning light, and looked, to Newman’s eyes, wonderfullysplendid and precious. It seemed to him a very happy purchase, and hefelt rich in the possession of it. He stood looking at it complacently,while he proceeded with his toilet, and M. Nioche, who had dismissed hisown attendant, hovered near, smiling and rubbing his hands.
“It has wonderful _finesse_,” he murmured, caressingly. “And hereand there are marvelous touches, you probably perceive them, sir. Itattracted great attention on the Boulevard, as we came along. And then agradation of tones! That’s what it is to know how to paint. I don’tsay it because I am her father, sir; but as one man of taste addressinganother I cannot help observing that you have there an exquisite work.It is hard to produce such things and to have to part with them. If ourmeans only allowed us the luxury of keeping it! I really may say, sir--” and M. Nioche gave a little feebly insinuating laugh--“I really maysay that I envy you! You see,” he added in a moment, “we have taken theliberty of offering you a frame. It increases by a trifle the value ofthe work, and it will save you the annoyance--so great for a person ofyour delicacy--of going about to bargain at the shops.”
The language spoken by M. Nioche was a singular compound, which I shrinkfrom the attempt to reproduce in its integrity. He had apparently oncepossessed a certain knowledge of English, and his accent was oddlytinged with the cockneyism of the British metropolis. But his learninghad grown rusty with disuse, and his vocabulary was defective andcapricious. He had repaired it with large patches of French, with wordsanglicized by a process of his own, and with native idioms literallytranslated. The result, in the form in which he in all humilitypresented it, would be scarcely comprehensible to the reader, so that Ihave ventured to trim and sift it. Newman only half understood it, butit amused him, and the old man’s decent forlornness appealed to hisdemocratic instincts. The assumption of a fatality in misery alwaysirritated his strong good nature--it was almost the only thing that didso; and he felt the impulse to wipe it out, as it were, with the spongeof his own prosperity. The papa of Mademoiselle Noémie, however, hadapparently on this occasion been vigorously indoctrinated, and he showeda certain tremulous eagerness to cultivate unexpected opportunities.
“How much do I owe you, then, with the frame?” asked Newman.
“It will make in all three thousand francs,” said the old man, smilingagreeably, but folding his hands in instinctive suppliance.
“Can you give me a receipt?”
“I have brought one,” said M. Nioche. “I took the liberty of drawing itup, in case monsieur should happen to desire to discharge his debt.” Andhe drew a paper from his pocket-book and presented it to his patron.The document was written in a minute, fantastic hand, and couched in thechoicest language.
Newman laid down the money, and M. Nioche dropped the napoleons one byone, solemnly and lovingly, into an old leathern purse.
“And how is your young lady?” asked Newman. “She made a great impressionon me.”
“An impression? Monsieur is very good. Monsieur admires her appearance?”
“She is very pretty, certainly.”
“Alas, yes, she is very pretty!”
“And what is the harm in her being pretty?”
M. Nioche fixed his eyes upon a spot on the carpet and shook his head.Then looking up at Newman with a gaze that seemed to brighten andexpand, “Monsieur knows what Paris is. She is dangerous to beauty, whenbeauty hasn’t the sou.”
“Ah, but that is not the case with your daughter. She is rich, now.”
“Very true; we are rich for six months. But if my daughter were a plaingirl I should sleep better all the same.”
“You are afraid of the young men?”
“The young and the old!”
“She ought to get a husband.”
“Ah, monsieur, one doesn’t get a husband for nothing. Her husband musttake her as she is; I can’t give her a sou. But the young men don’t seewith that eye.”
“Oh,” said Newman, “her talent is in itself a dowry.”
“Ah, sir, it needs first to be converted into specie!” and M. Niocheslapped his purse tenderly before he stowed it away. “The operationdoesn’t take place every day.”
“Well, your young men are very shabby,” said Newman; “that’s all I cansay. They ought to pay for your daughter, and not ask money themselves.”
“Those are very noble ideas, monsieur; but what will you have? They arenot the ideas of this country. We want to know what we are about when wemarry.”
“How big a portion does your daughter want?”
M. Nioche stared, as if he wondered what was coming next; but hepromptly recovered himself, at a venture, and replied that he knew avery nice young man, employed by an insurance company, who would contenthimself with fifteen thousand francs.
“Let your daughter paint half a dozen pictures for me, and she shallhave her dowry.”
“Half a dozen pictures--her dowry! Monsieur is not speakinginconsiderately?”
“If she will make me six or eight copies in the Louvre as pretty as thatMadonna, I will pay her the same price,” said Newman.
Poor M. Nioche was speechless a moment, with amazement and gratitude,and then he seized Newman’s hand, pressed it between his own tenfingers, and gazed at him with watery eyes. “As pretty as that? Theyshall be a thousand times prettier--they shall be magnificent, sublime.Ah, if I only knew how to paint, myself, sir, so that I might lend ahand! What can I do to thank you? _Voyons!_” And he pressed his foreheadwhile he tried to think of something.
“Oh, you have thanked me enough,” said Newman.
“Ah, here it is, sir!” cried M. Nioche. “To express my gratitude, I willcharge you nothing for the lessons in French conversation.”
“The lessons? I had quite forgotten them. Listening to your English,” added Newman, laughing, “is almost a lesson in French.”
“Ah, I don’t profess to teach English, certainly,” said M. Nioche. “Butfor my own admirable tongue I am still at your service.”
“Since you are here, then,” said Newman, “we will begin. This is a verygood hour. I am going to have my coffee; come every morning at half-pastnine and have yours with me.”
“Monsieur offers me my coffee, also?” cried M. Nioche. “Truly, my _beauxjours_ are coming back.”
“Come,” said Newman, “let us begin. The coffee is almighty hot. How doyou say that in French?”
Every day, then, for the following three weeks, the minutely respectablefigure of M. Nioche made its appearance, with a series of littleinquiring and apologetic obeisances, among the aromatic fumes ofNewman’s morning beverage. I don’t know how much French our friendlearned, but, as he himself said, if the attempt did him no good, itcould at any rate do him no harm. And it amused him; it gratified thatirregularly sociable side of his nature which had always expresseditself in a relish for ungrammatical conversation, and which often, evenin his busy and preoccupied days, had made him sit on rail fencesin young Western towns, in the twilight, in gossip hardly less thanfraternal with humorous loafers and obscure fortune-seekers. He hadnotions, wherever he went, about talking with the natives; he had beenassured, a
nd his judgment approved the advice, that in traveling abroadit was an excellent thing to look into the life of the country. M.Nioche was very much of a native and, though his life might not beparticularly worth looking into, he was a palpable and smoothly-roundedunit in that picturesque Parisian civilization which offered our hero somuch easy entertainment and propounded so many curious problems to hisinquiring and practical mind. Newman was fond of statistics; he likedto know how things were done; it gratified him to learn what taxes werepaid, what profits were gathered, what commercial habits prevailed, howthe battle of life was fought. M. Nioche, as a reduced capitalist, wasfamiliar with these considerations, and he formulated his information,which he was proud to be able to impart, in the neatest possibleterms and with a pinch of snuff between finger and thumb. As aFrenchman--quite apart from Newman’s napoleons--M. Nioche lovedconversation, and even in his decay his urbanity had not grown rusty. Asa Frenchman, too, he could give a clear account of things, and--still asa Frenchman--when his knowledge was at fault he could supply its lapseswith the most convenient and ingenious hypotheses. The little shrunkenfinancier was intensely delighted to have questions asked him, and hescraped together information, by frugal processes, and took notes, inhis little greasy pocket-book, of incidents which might interest hismunificent friend. He read old almanacs at the book-stalls on the quays,and he began to frequent another _café_, where more newspapers weretaken and his postprandial _demitasse_ cost him a penny extra, and wherehe used to con the tattered sheets for curious anecdotes, freaks ofnature, and strange coincidences. He would relate with solemnity thenext morning that a child of five years of age had lately died atBordeaux, whose brain had been found to weigh sixty ounces--the brain ofa Napoleon or a Washington! or that Madame P--, _charcutière_ in the Ruede Clichy, had found in the wadding of an old petticoat the sum ofthree hundred and sixty francs, which she had lost five years before.He pronounced his words with great distinctness and sonority, and Newmanassured him that his way of dealing with the French tongue was verysuperior to the bewildering chatter that he heard in other mouths.Upon this M. Nioche’s accent became more finely trenchant than ever, heoffered to read extracts from Lamartine, and he protested that, althoughhe did endeavor according to his feeble lights to cultivate refinementof diction, monsieur, if he wanted the real thing, should go to theThéâtre Français.
Newman took an interest in French thriftiness and conceived a livelyadmiration for Parisian economies. His own economic genius was soentirely for operations on a larger scale, and, to move at his ease, heneeded so imperatively the sense of great risks and great prizes, thathe found an ungrudging entertainment in the spectacle of fortunes madeby the aggregation of copper coins, and in the minute subdivision oflabor and profit. He questioned M. Nioche about his own manner of life,and felt a friendly mixture of compassion and respect over the recitalof his delicate frugalities. The worthy man told him how, at one period,he and his daughter had supported existence comfortably upon the sum offifteen sous _per diem_; recently, having succeeded in hauling ashorethe last floating fragments of the wreck of his fortune, his budget hadbeen a trifle more ample. But they still had to count their sous verynarrowly, and M. Nioche intimated with a sigh that Mademoiselle Noémiedid not bring to this task that zealous cooperation which might havebeen desired.
“But what will you have?”’ he asked, philosophically. “One is young, oneis pretty, one needs new dresses and fresh gloves; one can’t wear shabbygowns among the splendors of the Louvre.”
“But your daughter earns enough to pay for her own clothes,” saidNewman.
M. Nioche looked at him with weak, uncertain eyes. He would have likedto be able to say that his daughter’s talents were appreciated, and thather crooked little daubs commanded a market; but it seemed a scandalto abuse the credulity of this free-handed stranger, who, without asuspicion or a question, had admitted him to equal social rights. Hecompromised, and declared that while it was obvious that MademoiselleNoémie’s reproductions of the old masters had only to be seen to becoveted, the prices which, in consideration of their altogether peculiardegree of finish, she felt obliged to ask for them had kept purchasersat a respectful distance. “Poor little one!” said M. Nioche, with asigh; “it is almost a pity that her work is so perfect! It would be inher interest to paint less well.”
“But if Mademoiselle Noémie has this devotion to her art,” Newman onceobserved, “why should you have those fears for her that you spoke of theother day?”
M. Nioche meditated: there was an inconsistency in his position it madehim chronically uncomfortable. Though he had no desire to destroy thegoose with the golden eggs--Newman’s benevolent confidence--he felt atremulous impulse to speak out all his trouble. “Ah, she is an artist,my dear sir, most assuredly,” he declared. “But, to tell you the truth,she is also a _franche coquette_. I am sorry to say,” he added in amoment, shaking his head with a world of harmless bitterness, “that shecomes honestly by it. Her mother was one before her!”
“You were not happy with your wife?” Newman asked.
M. Nioche gave half a dozen little backward jerks of his head. “She wasmy purgatory, monsieur!”
“She deceived you?”
“Under my nose, year after year. I was too stupid, and the temptationwas too great. But I found her out at last. I have only been once in mylife a man to be afraid of; I know it very well; it was in that hour!Nevertheless I don’t like to think of it. I loved her--I can’t tell youhow much. She was a bad woman.”
“She is not living?”
“She has gone to her account.”
“Her influence on your daughter, then,” said Newman encouragingly, “isnot to be feared.”
“She cared no more for her daughter than for the sole of her shoe! ButNoémie has no need of influence. She is sufficient to herself. She isstronger than I.”
“She doesn’t obey you, eh?”
“She can’t obey, monsieur, since I don’t command. What would be the use?It would only irritate her and drive her to some _coup de tête_. Sheis very clever, like her mother; she would waste no time about it. Asa child--when I was happy, or supposed I was--she studied drawing andpainting with first-class professors, and they assured me she had atalent. I was delighted to believe it, and when I went into society Iused to carry her pictures with me in a portfolio and hand them roundto the company. I remember, once, a lady thought I was offering them forsale, and I took it very ill. We don’t know what we may come to! Thencame my dark days, and my explosion with Madame Nioche. Noémie had nomore twenty-franc lessons; but in the course of time, when she grewolder, and it became highly expedient that she should do something thatwould help to keep us alive, she bethought herself of her palette andbrushes. Some of our friends in the _quartier_ pronounced the ideafantastic: they recommended her to try bonnet making, to get a situationin a shop, or--if she was more ambitious--to advertise for a place of_dame de compagnie_. She did advertise, and an old lady wrote hera letter and bade her come and see her. The old lady liked her, andoffered her her living and six hundred francs a year; but Noémiediscovered that she passed her life in her armchair and had only twovisitors, her confessor and her nephew: the confessor very strict, andthe nephew a man of fifty, with a broken nose and a government clerkshipof two thousand francs. She threw her old lady over, bought a paint-box,a canvas, and a new dress, and went and set up her easel in the Louvre.There in one place and another, she has passed the last two years; Ican’t say it has made us millionaires. But Noémie tells me that Rome wasnot built in a day, that she is making great progress, that I must leaveher to her own devices. The fact is, without prejudice to her genius,that she has no idea of burying herself alive. She likes to see theworld, and to be seen. She says, herself, that she can’t work inthe dark. With her appearance it is very natural. Only, I can’t helpworrying and trembling and wondering what may happen to her there allalone, day after day, amid all that coming and going of strangers. Ican’t be always at her side. I go with her in the mor
ning, and I come tofetch her away, but she won’t have me near her in the interval; she saysI make her nervous. As if it didn’t make me nervous to wander aboutall day without her! Ah, if anything were to happen to her!” criedM. Nioche, clenching his two fists and jerking back his head again,portentously.
“Oh, I guess nothing will happen,” said Newman.
“I believe I should shoot her!” said the old man, solemnly.
“Oh, we’ll marry her,” said Newman, “since that’s how you manage it; andI will go and see her tomorrow at the Louvre and pick out the picturesshe is to copy for me.”
M. Nioche had brought Newman a message from his daughter, in acceptanceof his magnificent commission, the young lady declaring herself his mostdevoted servant, promising her most zealous endeavor, and regrettingthat the proprieties forbade her coming to thank him in person. Themorning after the conversation just narrated, Newman reverted to hisintention of meeting Mademoiselle Noémie at the Louvre. M. Niocheappeared preoccupied, and left his budget of anecdotes unopened; hetook a great deal of snuff, and sent certain oblique, appealing glancestoward his stalwart pupil. At last, when he was taking his leave,he stood a moment, after he had polished his hat with his calicopocket-handkerchief, with his small, pale eyes fixed strangely uponNewman.
“What’s the matter?” our hero demanded.
“Excuse the solicitude of a father’s heart!” said M. Nioche. “Youinspire me with boundless confidence, but I can’t help giving you awarning. After all, you are a man, you are young and at liberty. Let mebeseech you, then, to respect the innocence of Mademoiselle Nioche!”
Newman had wondered what was coming, and at this he broke into a laugh.He was on the point of declaring that his own innocence struck him asthe more exposed, but he contented himself with promising to treat theyoung girl with nothing less than veneration. He found her waiting forhim, seated upon the great divan in the Salon Carré. She was not inher working-day costume, but wore her bonnet and gloves and carried herparasol, in honor of the occasion. These articles had been selected withunerring taste, and a fresher, prettier image of youthful alertnessand blooming discretion was not to be conceived. She made Newman a mostrespectful curtsey and expressed her gratitude for his liberality in awonderfully graceful little speech. It annoyed him to have a charmingyoung girl stand there thanking him, and it made him feel uncomfortableto think that this perfect young lady, with her excellent manners andher finished intonation, was literally in his pay. He assured her, insuch French as he could muster, that the thing was not worth mentioning,and that he considered her services a great favor.
“Whenever you please, then,” said Mademoiselle Noémie, “we will pass thereview.”
They walked slowly round the room, then passed into the others andstrolled about for half an hour. Mademoiselle Noémie evidently relishedher situation, and had no desire to bring her public interview with herstriking-looking patron to a close. Newman perceived that prosperityagreed with her. The little thin-lipped, peremptory air with which shehad addressed her father on the occasion of their former meeting hadgiven place to the most lingering and caressing tones.
“What sort of pictures do you desire?” she asked. “Sacred, or profane?”
“Oh, a few of each,” said Newman. “But I want something bright and gay.”
“Something gay? There is nothing very gay in this solemn old Louvre. Butwe will see what we can find. You speak French to-day like a charm. Myfather has done wonders.”
“Oh, I am a bad subject,” said Newman. “I am too old to learn alanguage.”
“Too old? _Quelle folie!_” cried Mademoiselle Noémie, with a clear,shrill laugh. “You are a very young man. And how do you like my father?”
“He is a very nice old gentleman. He never laughs at my blunders.”
“He is very _comme il faut_, my papa,” said Mademoiselle Noémie, “and ashonest as the day. Oh, an exceptional probity! You could trust him withmillions.”
“Do you always obey him?” asked Newman.
“Obey him?”
“Do you do what he bids you?”
The young girl stopped and looked at him; she had a spot of color ineither cheek, and in her expressive French eye, which projected too muchfor perfect beauty, there was a slight gleam of audacity. “Why do youask me that?” she demanded.
“Because I want to know.”
“You think me a bad girl?” And she gave a strange smile.
Newman looked at her a moment; he saw that she was pretty, but he wasnot in the least dazzled. He remembered poor M. Nioche’s solicitude forher “innocence,” and he laughed as his eyes met hers. Her face was theoddest mixture of youth and maturity, and beneath her candid browher searching little smile seemed to contain a world of ambiguousintentions. She was pretty enough, certainly to make her father nervous;but, as regards her innocence, Newman felt ready on the spot to affirmthat she had never parted with it. She had simply never had any; she hadbeen looking at the world since she was ten years old, and he would havebeen a wise man who could tell her any secrets. In her long mornings atthe Louvre she had not only studied Madonnas and St. Johns; she had keptan eye upon all the variously embodied human nature around her, and shehad formed her conclusions. In a certain sense, it seemed to Newman, M.Nioche might be at rest; his daughter might do something very audacious,but she would never do anything foolish. Newman, with his long-drawn,leisurely smile, and his even, unhurried utterance, was always,mentally, taking his time; and he asked himself, now, what she waslooking at him in that way for. He had an idea that she would like himto confess that he did think her a bad girl.
“Oh, no,” he said at last; “it would be very bad manners in me to judgeyou that way. I don’t know you.”
“But my father has complained to you,” said Mademoiselle Noémie.
“He says you are a coquette.”
“He shouldn’t go about saying such things to gentlemen! But you don’tbelieve it?”
“No,” said Newman gravely, “I don’t believe it.”
She looked at him again, gave a shrug and a smile, and then pointed to asmall Italian picture, a Marriage of St. Catherine. “How should you likethat?” she asked.
“It doesn’t please me,” said Newman. “The young lady in the yellow dressis not pretty.”
“Ah, you are a great connoisseur,” murmured Mademoiselle Noémie.
“In pictures? Oh, no; I know very little about them.”
“In pretty women, then.”
“In that I am hardly better.”
“What do you say to that, then?” the young girl asked, indicating asuperb Italian portrait of a lady. “I will do it for you on a smallerscale.”
“On a smaller scale? Why not as large as the original?”
Mademoiselle Noémie glanced at the glowing splendor of the Venetianmasterpiece and gave a little toss of her head. “I don’t like thatwoman. She looks stupid.”
“I do like her,” said Newman. “Decidedly, I must have her, as large aslife. And just as stupid as she is there.”
The young girl fixed her eyes on him again, and with her mocking smile,“It certainly ought to be easy for me to make her look stupid!” shesaid.
“What do you mean?” asked Newman, puzzled.
She gave another little shrug. “Seriously, then, you want thatportrait--the golden hair, the purple satin, the pearl necklace, the twomagnificent arms?”
“Everything--just as it is.”
“Would nothing else do, instead?”
“Oh, I want some other things, but I want that too.”
Mademoiselle Noémie turned away a moment, walked to the other side ofthe hall, and stood there, looking vaguely about her. At last she cameback. “It must be charming to be able to order pictures at such a rate.Venetian portraits, as large as life! You go at it _en prince_. And youare going to travel about Europe that way?”
“Yes, I intend to travel,” said Newman.
“Ordering, buying, spending money?”
; “Of course I shall spend some money.”
“You are very happy to have it. And you are perfectly free?”
“How do you mean, free?”
“You have nothing to bother you--no family, no wife, no _fiancée?_”
“Yes, I am tolerably free.”
“You are very happy,” said Mademoiselle Noémie, gravely.
“_Je le veux bien!_” said Newman, proving that he had learned moreFrench than he admitted.
“And how long shall you stay in Paris?” the young girl went on.
“Only a few days more.”
“Why do you go away?”
“It is getting hot, and I must go to Switzerland.”
“To Switzerland? That’s a fine country. I would give my new parasolto see it! Lakes and mountains, romantic valleys and icy peaks! Oh,I congratulate you. Meanwhile, I shall sit here through all the hotsummer, daubing at your pictures.”
“Oh, take your time about it,” said Newman. “Do them at yourconvenience.”
They walked farther and looked at a dozen other things. Newman pointedout what pleased him, and Mademoiselle Noémie generally criticised it,and proposed something else. Then suddenly she diverged and began totalk about some personal matter.
“What made you speak to me the other day in the Salon Carré?” sheabruptly asked.
“I admired your picture.”
“But you hesitated a long time.”
“Oh, I do nothing rashly,” said Newman.
“Yes, I saw you watching me. But I never supposed you were going tospeak to me. I never dreamed I should be walking about here with youto-day. It’s very curious.”
“It is very natural,” observed Newman.
“Oh, I beg your pardon not to me. Coquette as you think me, I havenever walked about in public with a gentleman before. What was my fatherthinking of, when he consented to our interview?”
“He was repenting of his unjust accusations,” replied Newman.
Mademoiselle Noémie remained silent; at last she dropped into a seat.“Well then, for those five it is fixed,” she said. “Five copies asbrilliant and beautiful as I can make them. We have one more to choose.Shouldn’t you like one of those great Rubenses--the marriage of Marie deMédicis? Just look at it and see how handsome it is.”
“Oh, yes; I should like that,” said Newman. “Finish off with that.”
“Finish off with that--good!” And she laughed. She sat a moment, lookingat him, and then she suddenly rose and stood before him, with her handshanging and clasped in front of her. “I don’t understand you,” she saidwith a smile. “I don’t understand how a man can be so ignorant.”
“Oh, I am ignorant, certainly,” said Newman, putting his hands into hispockets.
“It’s ridiculous! I don’t know how to paint.”
“You don’t know how?”
“I paint like a cat; I can’t draw a straight line. I never sold apicture until you bought that thing the other day.” And as she offeredthis surprising information she continued to smile.
Newman burst into a laugh. “Why do you tell me this?” he asked.
“Because it irritates me to see a clever man blunder so. My pictures aregrotesque.”
“And the one I possess--”
“That one is rather worse than usual.”
“Well,” said Newman, “I like it all the same!”
She looked at him askance. “That is a very pretty thing to say,” sheanswered; “but it is my duty to warn you before you go farther. Thisorder of yours is impossible, you know. What do you take me for? It iswork for ten men. You pick out the six most difficult pictures in theLouvre, and you expect me to go to work as if I were sitting down to hema dozen pocket handkerchiefs. I wanted to see how far you would go.”
Newman looked at the young girl in some perplexity. In spite of theridiculous blunder of which he stood convicted, he was very far frombeing a simpleton, and he had a lively suspicion that MademoiselleNoémie’s sudden frankness was not essentially more honest than herleaving him in error would have been. She was playing a game; shewas not simply taking pity on his æsthetic verdancy. What was it sheexpected to win? The stakes were high and the risk was great; the prizetherefore must have been commensurate. But even granting that the prizemight be great, Newman could not resist a movement of admiration for hiscompanion’s intrepidity. She was throwing away with one hand, whatevershe might intend to do with the other, a very handsome sum of money.
“Are you joking,” he said, “or are you serious?”
“Oh, serious!” cried Mademoiselle Noémie, but with her extraordinarysmile.
“I know very little about pictures or how they are painted. If you can’tdo all that, of course you can’t. Do what you can, then.”
“It will be very bad,” said Mademoiselle Noémie.
“Oh,” said Newman, laughing, “if you are determined it shall be bad, ofcourse it will. But why do you go on painting badly?”
“I can do nothing else; I have no real talent.”
“You are deceiving your father, then.”
The young girl hesitated a moment. “He knows very well!”
“No,” Newman declared; “I am sure he believes in you.”
“He is afraid of me. I go on painting badly, as you say, because I wantto learn. I like it, at any rate. And I like being here; it is a placeto come to, every day; it is better than sitting in a little dark, damproom, on a court, or selling buttons and whalebones over a counter.”
“Of course it is much more amusing,” said Newman. “But for a poor girlisn’t it rather an expensive amusement?”
“Oh, I am very wrong, there is no doubt about that,” said MademoiselleNoémie. “But rather than earn my living as some girls do--toiling witha needle, in little black holes, out of the world--I would throw myselfinto the Seine.”
“There is no need of that,” Newman answered; “your father told you myoffer?”
“Your offer?”
“He wants you to marry, and I told him I would give you a chance to earnyour _dot_.”
“He told me all about it, and you see the account I make of it! Whyshould you take such an interest in my marriage?”
“My interest was in your father. I hold to my offer; do what you can,and I will buy what you paint.”
She stood for some time, meditating, with her eyes on the ground.At last, looking up, “What sort of a husband can you get for twelvethousand francs?” she asked.
“Your father tells me he knows some very good young men.”
“Grocers and butchers and little _maîtres de cafés!_ I will not marry atall if I can’t marry well.”
“I would advise you not to be too fastidious,” said Newman. “That’s allthe advice I can give you.”
“I am very much vexed at what I have said!” cried the young girl. “Ithas done me no good. But I couldn’t help it.”
“What good did you expect it to do you?”
“I couldn’t help it, simply.”
Newman looked at her a moment. “Well, your pictures may be bad,” hesaid, “but you are too clever for me, nevertheless. I don’t understandyou. Good-bye!” And he put out his hand.
She made no response, and offered him no farewell. She turned away andseated herself sidewise on a bench, leaning her head on the back of herhand, which clasped the rail in front of the pictures. Newman stood amoment and then turned on his heel and retreated. He had understood herbetter than he confessed; this singular scene was a practical commentaryupon her father’s statement that she was a frank coquette.