CHAPTER XI
Newman, on his return to Paris, had not resumed the study of Frenchconversation with M. Nioche; he found that he had too many other usesfor his time. M. Nioche, however, came to see him very promptly, havinglearned his whereabouts by a mysterious process to which his patronnever obtained the key. The shrunken little capitalist repeated hisvisit more than once. He seemed oppressed by a humiliating sense ofhaving been overpaid, and wished apparently to redeem his debt by theoffer of grammatical and statistical information in small installments.He wore the same decently melancholy aspect as a few months before; afew months more or less of brushing could make little difference in theantique lustre of his coat and hat. But the poor old man’s spirit was atrifle more threadbare; it seemed to have received some hard rubs duringthe summer. Newman inquired with interest about Mademoiselle Noémie;and M. Nioche, at first, for answer, simply looked at him in lachrymosesilence.
“Don’t ask me, sir,” he said at last. “I sit and watch her, but I can donothing.”
“Do you mean that she misconducts herself?”
“I don’t know, I am sure. I can’t follow her. I don’t understand her.She has something in her head; I don’t know what she is trying to do.She is too deep for me.”
“Does she continue to go to the Louvre? Has she made any of those copiesfor me?”
“She goes to the Louvre, but I see nothing of the copies. She hassomething on her easel; I suppose it is one of the pictures you ordered.Such a magnificent order ought to give her fairy-fingers. But she isnot in earnest. I can’t say anything to her; I am afraid of her. Oneevening, last summer, when I took her to walk in the Champs Élysées, shesaid some things to me that frightened me.”
“What were they?”
“Excuse an unhappy father from telling you,” said M. Nioche, unfoldinghis calico pocket-handkerchief.
Newman promised himself to pay Mademoiselle Noémie another visit at theLouvre. He was curious about the progress of his copies, but it mustbe added that he was still more curious about the progress of the younglady herself. He went one afternoon to the great museum, and wanderedthrough several of the rooms in fruitless quest of her. He was bendinghis steps to the long hall of the Italian masters, when suddenly hefound himself face to face with Valentin de Bellegarde. The youngFrenchman greeted him with ardor, and assured him that he was agodsend. He himself was in the worst of humors and he wanted someone tocontradict.
“In a bad humor among all these beautiful things?” said Newman. “Ithought you were so fond of pictures, especially the old black ones.There are two or three here that ought to keep you in spirits.”
“Oh, to-day,” answered Valentin, “I am not in a mood for pictures, andthe more beautiful they are the less I like them. Their great staringeyes and fixed positions irritate me. I feel as if I were at some big,dull party, in a room full of people I shouldn’t wish to speak to. Whatshould I care for their beauty? It’s a bore, and, worse still, it’s areproach. I have a great many _ennuis_; I feel vicious.”
“If the Louvre has so little comfort for you, why in the world did youcome here?” Newman asked.
“That is one of my _ennuis_. I came to meet my cousin--a dreadfulEnglish cousin, a member of my mother’s family--who is in Paris fora week for her husband, and who wishes me to point out the ‘principalbeauties.’ Imagine a woman who wears a green crape bonnet in Decemberand has straps sticking out of the ankles of her interminable boots! Mymother begged I would do something to oblige them. I have undertaken toplay _valet de place_ this afternoon. They were to have met me hereat two o’clock, and I have been waiting for them twenty minutes. Whydoesn’t she arrive? She has at least a pair of feet to carry her. Idon’t know whether to be furious at their playing me false, or delightedto have escaped them.”
“I think in your place I would be furious,” said Newman, “because theymay arrive yet, and then your fury will still be of use to you. Whereasif you were delighted and they were afterwards to turn up, you might notknow what to do with your delight.”
“You give me excellent advice, and I already feel better. I will befurious; I will let them go to the deuce and I myself will go withyou--unless by chance you too have a rendezvous.”
“It is not exactly a rendezvous,” said Newman. “But I have in fact cometo see a person, not a picture.”
“A woman, presumably?”
“A young lady.”
“Well,” said Valentin, “I hope for you with all my heart that she is notclothed in green tulle and that her feet are not too much out of focus.”
“I don’t know much about her feet, but she has very pretty hands.”
Valentin gave a sigh. “And on that assurance I must part with you?”
“I am not certain of finding my young lady,” said Newman, “and I am notquite prepared to lose your company on the chance. It does not strikeme as particularly desirable to introduce you to her, and yet I shouldrather like to have your opinion of her.”
“Is she pretty?”
“I guess you will think so.”
Bellegarde passed his arm into that of his companion. “Conduct me to heron the instant! I should be ashamed to make a pretty woman wait for myverdict.”
Newman suffered himself to be gently propelled in the direction inwhich he had been walking, but his step was not rapid. He was turningsomething over in his mind. The two men passed into the long gallery ofthe Italian masters, and Newman, after having scanned for a moment itsbrilliant vista, turned aside into the smaller apartment devoted tothe same school, on the left. It contained very few persons, but at thefarther end of it sat Mademoiselle Nioche, before her easel. She wasnot at work; her palette and brushes had been laid down beside her, herhands were folded in her lap, and she was leaning back in her chair andlooking intently at two ladies on the other side of the hall, who, withtheir backs turned to her, had stopped before one of the pictures. Theseladies were apparently persons of high fashion they were dressed withgreat splendor, and their long silken trains and furbelows were spreadover the polished floor. It was at their dresses Mademoiselle Noémie waslooking, though what she was thinking of I am unable to say. I hazardthe supposition that she was saying to herself that to be able to dragsuch a train over a polished floor was a felicity worth any price. Herreflections, at any rate, were disturbed by the advent of Newman andhis companion. She glanced at them quickly, and then, coloring a little,rose and stood before her easel.
“I came here on purpose to see you,” said Newman in his bad French,offering to shake hands. And then, like a good American, he introducedValentin formally: “Allow me to make you acquainted with the ComteValentin de Bellegarde.”
Valentin made a bow which must have seemed to Mademoiselle Noémiequite in harmony with the impressiveness of his title, but the gracefulbrevity of her own response made no concession to underbred surprise.She turned to Newman, putting up her hands to her hair and smoothing itsdelicately-felt roughness. Then, rapidly, she turned the canvas that wason her easel over upon its face. “You have not forgotten me?” she asked.
“I shall never forget you,” said Newman. “You may be sure of that.”
“Oh,” said the young girl, “there are a great many different waysof remembering a person.” And she looked straight at Valentin deBellegarde, who was looking at her as a gentleman may when a “verdict” is expected of him.
“Have you painted anything for me?” said Newman. “Have you beenindustrious?”
“No, I have done nothing.” And taking up her palette, she began to mixher colors at hazard.
“But your father tells me you have come here constantly.”
“I have nowhere else to go! Here, all summer, it was cool, at least.”
“Being here, then,” said Newman, “you might have tried something.”
“I told you before,” she answered, softly, “that I don’t know how topaint.”
“But you have something charming on your easel, now,” said Valentin, “ifyou would only let me
see it.”
She spread out her two hands, with the fingers expanded, over the backof the canvas--those hands which Newman had called pretty, and which, inspite of several paint-stains, Valentin could now admire. “My paintingis not charming,” she said.
“It is the only thing about you that is not, then, mademoiselle,” quothValentin, gallantly.
She took up her little canvas and silently passed it to him. He lookedat it, and in a moment she said, “I am sure you are a judge.”
“Yes,” he answered, “I am.”
“You know, then, that that is very bad.”
“_Mon Dieu_,” said Valentin, shrugging his shoulders “let usdistinguish.”
“You know that I ought not to attempt to paint,” the young girlcontinued.
“Frankly, then, mademoiselle, I think you ought not.”
She began to look at the dresses of the two splendid ladies again--apoint on which, having risked one conjecture, I think I may riskanother. While she was looking at the ladies she was seeing Valentinde Bellegarde. He, at all events, was seeing her. He put down theroughly-besmeared canvas and addressed a little click with his tongue,accompanied by an elevation of the eyebrows, to Newman.
“Where have you been all these months?” asked Mademoiselle Noémie of ourhero. “You took those great journeys, you amused yourself well?”
“Oh, yes,” said Newman. “I amused myself well enough.”
“I am very glad,” said Mademoiselle Noémie with extreme gentleness, andshe began to dabble in her colors again. She was singularly pretty, withthe look of serious sympathy that she threw into her face.
Valentin took advantage of her downcast eyes to telegraph again to hiscompanion. He renewed his mysterious physiognomical play, making at thesame time a rapid tremulous movement in the air with his fingers. He wasevidently finding Mademoiselle Noémie extremely interesting; the bluedevils had departed, leaving the field clear.
“Tell me something about your travels,” murmured the young girl.
“Oh, I went to Switzerland,--to Geneva and Zermatt and Zürich and allthose places you know; and down to Venice, and all through Germany, anddown the Rhine, and into Holland and Belgium--the regular round. How doyou say that, in French--the regular round?” Newman asked of Valentin.
Mademoiselle Nioche fixed her eyes an instant on Bellegarde, and thenwith a little smile, “I don’t understand monsieur,” she said, “when hesays so much at once. Would you be so good as to translate?”
“I would rather talk to you out of my own head,” Valentin declared.
“No,” said Newman, gravely, still in his bad French, “you must not talkto Mademoiselle Nioche, because you say discouraging things. You oughtto tell her to work, to persevere.”
“And we French, mademoiselle,” said Valentin, “are accused of beingfalse flatterers!”
“I don’t want any flattery, I want only the truth. But I know thetruth.”
“All I say is that I suspect there are some things that you can dobetter than paint,” said Valentin.
“I know the truth--I know the truth,” Mademoiselle Noémie repeated. And,dipping a brush into a clot of red paint, she drew a great horizontaldaub across her unfinished picture.
“What is that?” asked Newman.
Without answering, she drew another long crimson daub, in a verticaldirection, down the middle of her canvas, and so, in a moment, completedthe rough indication of a cross. “It is the sign of the truth,” she saidat last.
The two men looked at each other, and Valentin indulged in anotherflash of physiognomical eloquence. “You have spoiled your picture,” saidNewman.
“I know that very well. It was the only thing to do with it. I had satlooking at it all day without touching it. I had begun to hate it. Itseemed to me something was going to happen.”
“I like it better that way than as it was before,” said Valentin. “Nowit is more interesting. It tells a story. Is it for sale?”
“Everything I have is for sale,” said Mademoiselle Noémie.
“How much is this thing?”
“Ten thousand francs,” said the young girl, without a smile.
“Everything that Mademoiselle Nioche may do at present is mine inadvance,” said Newman. “It makes part of an order I gave her some monthsago. So you can’t have this.”
“Monsieur will lose nothing by it,” said the young girl, looking atValentin. And she began to put up her utensils.
“I shall have gained a charming memory,” said Valentin. “You are goingaway? your day is over?”
“My father is coming to fetch me,” said Mademoiselle Noémie.
She had hardly spoken when, through the door behind her, which opens onone of the great white stone staircases of the Louvre, M. Nioche madehis appearance. He came in with his usual even, patient shuffle, andhe made a low salute to the two gentlemen who were standing before hisdaughter’s easel. Newman shook his hands with muscular friendliness, andValentin returned his greeting with extreme deference. While the old manstood waiting for Noémie to make a parcel of her implements, he lethis mild, oblique gaze hover toward Bellegarde, who was watchingMademoiselle Noémie put on her bonnet and mantle. Valentin was at nopains to disguise his scrutiny. He looked at a pretty girl as he wouldhave listened to a piece of music. Attention, in each case, was simplegood manners. M. Nioche at last took his daughter’s paint-box in onehand and the bedaubed canvas, after giving it a solemn, puzzled stare,in the other, and led the way to the door. Mademoiselle Noémie made theyoung men the salute of a duchess, and followed her father.
“Well,” said Newman, “what do you think of her?”
“She is very remarkable. _Diable, diable, diable!_” repeated M. deBellegarde, reflectively; “she is very remarkable.”
“I am afraid she is a sad little adventuress,” said Newman.
“Not a little one--a great one. She has the material.” And Valentinbegan to walk away slowly, looking vaguely at the pictures on the walls,with a thoughtful illumination in his eye. Nothing could have appealedto his imagination more than the possible adventures of a young ladyendowed with the “material” of Mademoiselle Nioche. “She is veryinteresting,” he went on. “She is a beautiful type.”
“A beautiful type? What the deuce do you mean?” asked Newman.
“I mean from the artistic point of view. She is an artist,--outside ofher painting, which obviously is execrable.”
“But she is not beautiful. I don’t even think her very pretty.”
“She is quite pretty enough for her purposes, and it is a face andfigure on which everything tells. If she were prettier she would be lessintelligent, and her intelligence is half of her charm.”
“In what way,” asked Newman, who was much amused at his companion’simmediate philosophisation of Mademoiselle Nioche, “does herintelligence strike you as so remarkable?”
“She has taken the measure of life, and she has determined to _be_something--to succeed at any cost. Her painting, of course, is a meretrick to gain time. She is waiting for her chance; she wishes to launchherself, and to do it well. She knows her Paris. She is one of fiftythousand, so far as the mere ambition goes; but I am very sure thatin the way of resolution and capacity she is a rarity. And in onegift--perfect heartlessness--I will warrant she is unsurpassed. Shehas not as much heart as will go on the point of a needle. That is animmense virtue. Yes, she is one of the celebrities of the future.”
“Heaven help us!” said Newman, “how far the artistic point of view maytake a man! But in this case I must request that you don’t let it takeyou too far. You have learned a wonderful deal about MademoiselleNoémie in a quarter of an hour. Let that suffice; don’t follow up yourresearches.”
“My dear fellow,” cried Bellegarde with warmth, “I hope I have too goodmanners to intrude.”
“You are not intruding. The girl is nothing to me. In fact, I ratherdislike her. But I like her poor old father, and for his sake I beg youto abstain from any attempt to verify you
r theories.”
“For the sake of that seedy old gentleman who came to fetch her?” demanded Valentin, stopping short. And on Newman’s assenting, “Ah no, ahno,” he went on with a smile. “You are quite wrong, my dear fellow; youneedn’t mind him.”
“I verily believe that you are accusing the poor gentleman of beingcapable of rejoicing in his daughter’s dishonor.”
“_Voyons!_” said Valentin; “who is he? what is he?”
“He is what he looks like: as poor as a rat, but very high-toned.”
“Exactly. I noticed him perfectly; be sure I do him justice. He hashad losses, _des malheurs_, as we say. He is very low-spirited, and hisdaughter is too much for him. He is the pink of respectability, and hehas sixty years of honesty on his back. All this I perfectly appreciate.But I know my fellow-men and my fellow-Parisians, and I will make abargain with you.” Newman gave ear to his bargain and he went on. “Hewould rather his daughter were a good girl than a bad one, but if theworst comes to the worst, the old man will not do what Virginius did.Success justifies everything. If Mademoiselle Noémie makes a figure,her papa will feel--well, we will call it relieved. And she will make afigure. The old gentleman’s future is assured.”
“I don’t know what Virginius did, but M. Nioche will shoot Miss Noémie,” said Newman. “After that, I suppose his future will be assured in somesnug prison.”
“I am not a cynic; I am simply an observer,” Valentin rejoined.“Mademoiselle Noémie interests me; she is extremely remarkable. Ifthere is a good reason, in honor or decency, for dismissing her from mythoughts forever, I am perfectly willing to do it. Your estimate of thepapa’s sensibilities is a good reason until it is invalidated. I promiseyou not to look at the young girl again until you tell me that you havechanged your mind about the papa. When he has given distinct proof ofbeing a philosopher, you will raise your interdict. Do you agree tothat?”
“Do you mean to bribe him?”
“Oh, you admit, then, that he is bribable? No, he would ask too much,and it would not be exactly fair. I mean simply to wait. You willcontinue, I suppose, to see this interesting couple, and you will giveme the news yourself.”
“Well,” said Newman, “if the old man turns out a humbug, you may do whatyou please. I wash my hands of the matter. For the girl herself, youmay be at rest. I don’t know what harm she may do to me, but I certainlycan’t hurt her. It seems to me,” said Newman, “that you are very wellmatched. You are both hard cases, and M. Nioche and I, I believe, arethe only virtuous men to be found in Paris.”
Soon after this M. de Bellegarde, in punishment for his levity, receiveda stern poke in the back from a pointed instrument. Turning quicklyround he found the weapon to be a parasol wielded by a lady in greengauze bonnet. Valentin’s English cousins had been drifting aboutunpiloted, and evidently deemed that they had a grievance. Newman lefthim to their mercies, but with a boundless faith in his power to pleadhis cause.