“Till Wednesday, then, M. Joyeuse.”
“Till Wednesday, monsieur—”
“De Gery—Paul de Gery.”
And they separated, both delighted, fascinated, the
one by the apparition of this unexpected saviour,
the other by the adorable picture of which he had
only a glimpse, all those young girls grouped round
the table covered with books, exercise-books, and
skeins of wool, with an air of purity, of industrious
honesty. This was a new Paris for Paul de Gery,
a courageous, home-like Paris, very different from
that which he already knew, a Paris of which the writers
of stories in the newspapers and the reporters never
speak, and which recalled to him his own country home,
with an additional charm, that charm which the struggle
and tumult around lend to the tranquil, secured refuge.
“And your son, Jenkins. What are you doing
with him? Why does one never see him now at your
house? He seemed a nice fellow.”
As she spoke in that tone of disdainful bluntness
which she almost always used when speaking to the
Irishman, Felicia was at work on the bust of the Nabob
which she had just commenced, posing her model, laying
down and taking up the boasting-tool, quickly wiping
her fingers with the little sponge, while the light
and peace of a fine Sunday afternoon fell on the top-light
of the studio. Felicia “received”
every Sunday, if to receive were to leave her door
open to allow people to come in, go out, sit down
for a moment, without stirring from her work or even
interrupting the course of a discussion to welcome
the new arrivals. They were artists, with refined
heads and luxuriant beards; here and there you might
see among them white-haired friends of Ruys, her father;
then there were society men, bankers, stock-brokers,
and a few young men about town, come to see the handsome
girl rather than her sculpture, in order to be able
to say at the club in the evening, “I was at
Felicia’s to-day.” Among them was
Paul de Gery, silent, absorbed in an admiration which
each day sunk into his heart a little more deeply,
trying to understand the beautiful sphinx draped in
purple cashmere and ecru lace, who worked away bravely
amid her clay, a burnisher’s apron reaching
nearly to her neck, allowing her small, proud head
to emerge with those transparent tones, those gleams
of veiled radiance of which the sense, the inspiration
bring the blood to the cheek as they pass. Paul
always remembered what had been said of her in his
presence, endeavoured to form an opinion for himself,
doubted, worried himself, and was charmed, vowing
to himself each time that he would come no more and
never missing a Sunday. A little woman with gray,
powdered hair was always there in the same place,
her pink face like a pastel somewhat worn by years,
who, in the discrete light of a recess, smiled sweetly,
with her hands lying idly on her knees, motionless
as a fakir. Jenkins, amiable, with his open face,
