Newman, on his return to Paris, had not resumed the study of French conversation with M.Nioche; he found that he had too many other uses for his time.M.Nioche, however, came to see him very promptly, having learned his whereabouts by a mysterious process to which his patron never obtained the key.
The shrunken little capitalist repeated his visit more than once.
He seemed oppressed by a humiliating sense of having been overpaid, and wished apparently to redeem his debt by the offer of grammatical and statistical information in small installments.
He wore the same decently melancholy aspect as a few months before;a few months more or less of brushing could make little difference in the antique lustre of his coat and hat.
But the poor old man's spirit was a trifle more threadbare;it seemed to have received some hard rubs during the summer Newman inquired with interest about Mademoiselle Noemie;and M.Nioche, at first, for answer, simply looked at him in lachrymose silence.
"Don't ask me, sir," he said at last."I sit and watch her, but I can do nothing.""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 copies for me?""She goes to the Louvre, but I see nothing of the copies.She has something 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 is not in earnest.I can't say anything to her; I am afraid of her.
One evening, last summer, when I took her to walk in the Champs Elysees, she said some things to me that frightened me.""What were they?"
"Excuse an unhappy father from telling you," said M.Nioche, unfolding his calico pocket-handkerchief.
Newman promised himself to pay Mademoiselle Noemie another visit at the Louvre.He was curious about the progress of his copies, but it must be added that he was still more curious about the progress of the young lady herself.He went one afternoon to the great museum, and wandered through several of the rooms in fruitless quest of her.
He was bending his steps to the long hall of the Italian masters, when suddenly he found himself face to face with Valentin de Bellegarde.
The young Frenchman greeted him with ardor, and assured him that he was a godsend.He himself was in the worst of humors and he wanted some one to contradict.
"In a bad humor among all these beautiful things?" said Newman.
"I thought 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, and the more beautiful they are the less I like them.
Their great staring eyes 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.What should I care for their beauty? It's a bore, and, worse still, it's a reproach.
I have a great many ennuis; I feel vicious.""If the Louvre has so little comfort for you, why in the world did you come here?" Newman asked.
"That is one of my ennuis.I came to meet my cousin--a dreadful English cousin, a member of my mother's family--who is in Paris for a week for her husband, and who wishes me to point out the 'principal beauties.' Imagine a woman who wears a green crape bonnet in December and has straps sticking out of the ankles of her interminable boots!
My mother begged I would do something to oblige them.
I have undertaken to play valet de place this afternoon.
They were to have met me here at two o'clock, and I have been waiting for them twenty minutes.Why doesn't she arrive?
She has at least a pair of feet to carry her.
I don't know whether to be furious at their playing me false, or delighted to have escaped them.""I think in your place I would be furious," said Newman, "because they may arrive yet, and then your fury will still be of use to you.
Whereas if you were delighted and they were afterwards to turn up, you might not know what to do with your delight.""You give me excellent advice, and I already feel better.
I will be furious; I will let them go to the deuce and I myself will go with you--unless by chance you too have a rendezvous.""It is not exactly a rendezvous," said Newman."But I have in fact come to 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 not clothed 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 not quite prepared to lose your company on the chance.
It does not strike me as particularly desirable to introduce you to her, and yet I should rather 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 her on the instant! I should be ashamed to make a pretty woman wait for my verdict."Newman suffered himself to be gently propelled in the direction in which he had been walking, but his step was not rapid.
He was turning something over in his mind.The two men passed into the long gallery of the Italian masters, and Newman, after having scanned for a moment its brilliant vista, turned aside into the smaller apartment devoted to the same school, on the left.It contained very few persons, but at the farther end of it sat Mademoiselle Nioche, before her easel.
She was not at work; her palette and brushes had been laid down beside her, her hands were folded in her lap, and she was leaning back in her chair and looking intently at two ladies on the other side of the hall, who, with their backs turned to her, had stopped before one of the pictures.