CHAPTER XI.
The following day—it was the last of October—was one of almost wintry cold. The doctor who visited Miss Baring had a long interview afterwards with her brother, at his studio. He did not mince matters; he put the case plainly before Alaric, who for the first time awoke to a sense of his sister's danger. Both her lungs were affected; there was but one chance of saving her—she must leave Paris immediately. The young man did not hesitate for a moment. Wherever she was ordered he would accompany her. The doctor spoke of Colorado; but the expense of the journey, and the conditions of life there, so disadvantageous for an artist (and how could they live, unless Alaric sold his pictures?), precluded that idea. The relative merits of St. Moritz and Madeira were then discussed. Finally, it was decided that a sheltered spot on the Riviera would meet all the exigencies of the case, and Mentone seemed to combine more than any other. It was warm, it was beautiful, it was an easy journey. Alaric could run up to Paris at no great cost, if necessary. The neighbourhood of Nice and Monte Carlo rendered both sitters and purchasers more probable than at more remote health-resorts. For him, it was clearly the best place that had been suggested.
As the door closed on the doctor, Alaric walked to the shelf on which stood his shabby despatch-box, and unlocked it. He took out his bankers' book, and sat down to reflect as to ways and means. The result of his calculations was not very satisfactory. If he did not sell the picture on his easel, which was all but finished, and which he called "A Venetian Senator," he would not have more than sufficient to take them to Mentone, and keep them there for two or three months. He hated going to a dealer and offering his work for sale; but he remembered that the well-known Mr. Jacob had once come to him, and bought a picture: perhaps, if Alaric wrote to him, this man would pay him another visit. He swallowed his pride, sat down at once, wrote and directed the letter, and, holding it in his hand, went to his sister's room at the pension.
He found the two girls together. He had not seen Elizabeth before that morning, and, after shaking hands, took the vacant chair just opposite to her, beside Hatty's sofa.
"Did you see the doctor?" she inquired querulously. "Have you heard?"
"Yes. We must leave this in ten days, or a fortnight at latest."
"But how can you leave your work, Alaric? How can you afford such an expense? It is impossible!"
"Nothing is impossible," he said, with a reassuring smile. "I hope to sell my picture before I leave Paria. And I also hope to find sitters at Mentone."
"Mentone!" echoed Elizabeth. "That is a fashionable winter quarter, isn't it? Couldn't you find some quieter place?"
"I can't afford to be too quiet. I must think of sitters. I must be within reach of the multitude. Besides, there are splendid studies, there, I am told. I shall paint some pot-boilers. Have you a postage-stamp, Hatty?"
"I have one," said Elizabeth, quickly, taking a small book from her pocket. "Give me your letter, and I will put it on."
She stretched out her hand, and, taking the letter he handed to her, said, as she affixed the stamp—
"You will not mind my accompanying Hatty, Mr. Baring? I am very independent, and shall not be in your way, I promise you."
He looked embarrassed. "Is not this too great a sacrifice to friendship. Miss Shaw? You came here to study painting. My sister has no claim on you, and———"
"Oh, do not talk about 'claims.' It sounds so legal. I want to go with Hatty; and as you say there are splendid studies at Mentone, I shan't be wasting my time."
She handed the letter back to him, while Miss Baring cried, in a tremulous voice—
"Oh, my dear! are you sure?"
The fact is, her sensitive New-England conscience demanded anxiously whether she was justified in accepting this proof of friendship. Longing with all her heart, as she did, that Elizabeth should accompany them, it is possible that she would have refused with stern self-denial to entertain the idea, but for one consideration—Alaric was coming. Alaric would learn to know ber friend better, and his prejudices would drop from him.
"You know, dear," she continued, looking up into the English girl's face, "there is nothing would give me such pleasure as to have you with me; but is it right? You have come here to study. The classes have just begun. Won't you repent of your decision if you leave Paris just now? You know you are only coming out of kindness to me."
"I am going because I like it. I have long wanted to see the Riviera. If I am bored, I can come back. On the other hand, if Mr. Baring is called to Paris on business, you will not mind being left alone with me."
"The journey is expensive," observed Baring, without looking at her.
"So I suppose."
"And living at Mentone, I am afraid, will be dear."
"No doubt. But who knows? Perhaps I may sell a pot-boiler there also, and turn an honest penny. At all events, I mean to risk it. And now I shall leave you together to talk over your plans."
As the door closed behind her, Alaric said to his sister, "Is it right to accept this sacrifice at Miss Shaw's hands?"
"She says, you see, it is no sacrifice; and I do want her to come so badly, Ally."
"She seems pretty reckless about money."
"I fancy she has a small independence. It may not be much; but I am sure she is not reckless."
A few minutes later, Elizabeth, thickly veiled, left the house, and, crossing the Seine, made her way to the shop of a well-known picture- dealer in the Rue Lafitte.
"I wish to see Mr. Jacob," she said to the smart young man with waxed moustaches, who received her.
"He is engaged, mademoiselle."
"Then I will wait till he is free. I am come on a matter of business."
He went into an inner room, and, after a minute or two, returned, and begged the young lady to enter. She found the dealer seated at a table covered with letters, two empty cups which had contained coffee, a bottle of cognac, and some cigars. Opposite him sat a young man of Jewish aspect, with wonderful eyes and a splendid raven beard, but inclining already to baldness on the top of his head. He looked as if he wore stays, and Elizabeth, in the rapid glance she gave him, was conscious of a certain gorgeousness of appearance, attributable possibly to bis surprisingly good figure and a scarlet tie. Both the men were smoking very large cigars, and both rose as Elizabeth entered. Her height, her rather commanding air, and her fine, clear, brunette complexion, which the walk had rendered more than usually brilliant, impressed both these connoisseurs in beauty, but in a different way, as she threw back her double veil. The dealer was impressed and puzzled. What could this young woman, so unlike those who came to him daily "on business," want? Was she a grande dame, come secretly to dispose of some of her ancestors? The younger man had no such questions to trouble him. He saw a woman, exactly of the type he most admired—a finely grown creature, with a proud carriage and eyes like an eagle. She interested him at once. He was rich, he was generous; he was used to gratify every fancy he conceived. He was glad that his tête-à-tête with the old dealer had been interrupted. But his satisfaction was short-lived. The dealer was the first to speak.
"What can I do for you, madame?"
"I wish to see you alone, monsieur." She did not look at the Tsraelitish friend as she spoke, but was conscious that his eyes were riveted upon her.
"In that case. Monsieur Melchior, will you excuse me if I leave yon and take this lady into another———"
"On no account. It is I who will go into the shop, and wait till your business is finished," interrupted the man he had called Melchior; then added, laughing and showing a row of brilliantly white teeth, "I am, as you know, the slave of the fair sex."
And with a profound bow, which she barely acknowledged, he went into the outer shop. She began at once—
"You know Mr. Baring, the American artist, I think?"
"Certainly. A very clever young man."
"I believe you will receive a letter from him this evening, asking you to go and see a picture he is finishing. I wish you to buy that picture for me."
He looked surprised. "But—I do not quite understand———"
"Why I do not buy it from him direct, and save your commission? I have my own reasons for not wishing Mr. Baring to know that I am the purchaser. And, before we go further, you must promise me not to reveal the fact to him."
"Certainly. But—the price? What are you prepared to give?"
"Whatever he asks, plus your commission. I shall not, however, be able to pay the whole sum down. I propose to do so by instalments. I could give you a thousand francs as soon as the picture is in your hands, and another thousand at Christmas; and I shall leave the picture in your hands until the whole amount is paid. Does that suit you, Mr. Jacob?"
"What reference can you give me?"
She named her banker.
"He will tell you I have a tolerable balance in his hands; and he will give you my address, if you wish to write to me when I leave Paris, which will probably be in less than a fortnight. In the mean time, this is my name and present address," and she laid her card on the table. "I shall be absent some months. It will therefore be a convenience to me, as well as a security to you, if you will keep the picture until such time as I can claim it."
The dealer promised to do so. It was, indeed, seldom that he had business of so simple a character to transact. He said he would visit Mr. Baring's atelier to-morrow, whether he received his letter or not; and communicate with mademoiselle as soon as the purchase was effected.
Elizabeth bowed her head, and turned to the door, which the dealer held open for her. As she passed through the outer shop, Monsieur Melchior was leaning against an easel, with the big cigar which he had just taken from his red lips held between his middle and fore lingers, in an easy attitude, displaying his slim figure, broad shoulders, and narrow hips to the best advantage. Elizabeth's eye took it all in at a glance. She was conscious that he said something—she did not hear what; that he bowed—but she kept her eyes now fixed on the door, towards which she walked quickly. The dealer was behind her; the man with the waxed moustache at the farther end of the shop. She tried to open the door, did not understand the trick of the handle, and in a moment found another hand, with a murmured, "Pardon; permettez moi, mademoiselle," pressing hers, as it turned the brass knob the contrary way. She snatched away her hand, and as she drew back found Monsieur Melchior's black beard and smiling red lips very close to her. Her indignant eyes flashed upon him for a moment; the next she had passed into the street.
"Quelle Diane Chàsseresse! Who is she, Jacob? English by her accent; but where does she come from?"
The dealer took the card from the table, and handed it to Monsieur Melchior.
"Shaw? Shaw? Ça veut dire 'Bah!' en anglais. Living in a pension? Tiens! What is her business with you, Jacob?"
"She wants me to buy a picture for her."
"Whose? Suppose I buy it and give it her—eh?"
He laughed as he spoke. Seen thus, it was a passionate, sensual faoe, but not malevolent. The dealer shook his head.
"She is not that sort, I fancy, Monsieur Melchior. She is honest and straightforward, and, as you can see, not easy of access. There is some mystery about this affair. She does not wish the painter to know that she is the purchaser."
"Who is the painter?"
The dealer paused a moment. "I don't know that I ought to tell you."
"Oh, come, Jacob. You know, if I take the trouble, I can easily find out."
"That is true. You will probably see the picture standing here for some months, as she wishes me to keep it for her. Baring, the American, is the painter. You remember his picture in the Salon last year?"
"Of course I do, and I know the man a little—a tall fellow, not bad-looking, with a red beard. So she does not want him to know that she buys his picture, and is content to pay you your 'pourboire,' to keep it a secret?" Here he laughed again. "Curious—very curious! What can be her reason? And how comes it that a girl living in a pension can afford to buy pictures at all?"
The dealer shrugged his shoulders. "The English are all very queer. No accounting for what they do."
"True; but this passes ordinary eccentricity. I have a mind to go to the pension and find out more about her."
"I hope you will not, for at least a fortnight. Monsieur Melchior. You will probably spoil the whole transaction if you do. I should not have told you. If you betray me, it will be a breach of confidence. The young lady will recognize you—will guess that I have told you. The whole business may be ruined. You have been a good patron of mine, Monsieur Melchior, and———"
"Well, well, say no more about it, Jacob. Until the affair is concluded, I promise you to take no steps towards ferreting out all about this young woman."
******
Thus it fell out that Alaric Baring sold his picture for what he asked, five thousand francs, the following day; and that Madame Martineau learnt she was to lose not only the brother and sister who had lodged with her so long, but also the best-paying of her pensionnaires—the girl who had not yet been with her five months. The announcement, as regarded Miss Shaw at least, was received with extravagant expressions of regret by most of the men. Old Madame Clinchaut's sentiments were not of much consequence, either way; and Madame de Belcour's satisfaction at the departure of the insolent young Anglaise who had treated her with such marked coldness, was too thinly coated with conventional phrases not to be apparent to every one. Had not the American's intercourse with Elizabeth been conspicuous in public for its austerity, madame's malevolence would certainly have sown broadcast seeds of suggestion that the brother, and not the sister, was the attraction that drew the English girl away to Mentone. But as, though seated next each other at table, they interchanged so few words—Elizabeth, indeed, spoke more to every one at table than to Mr. Baring—it was manifestly absurd to hint that he was the loadstone. Madame de Belcour and Anatole Doucet agreed that l'Anglaise was a hard, cold creature, with none of the instincts of her sex. This had been manifest by her treatment of him. Probably she belonged to that new strange set of women, touching whom they had heard and read something lately, as being bent upon doing away with men, as far as the exigencies of human nature would permit. The professor, overhearing this, remarked that if in that wretched Albion there were many décadent poets, no wonder women became masculine.
As regards the Barings, it cannot be denied that the prospect of their departure was supported with fortitude. The other boarders seldom saw the Americans but at meal-times, and then they were regarded much like the cruet-stand in the centre of the table, supposed to contain oil, vinegar, and pepper, but practically useless. Those condiments were passed up and down and across the table: the decorative cruet-stand was never touched. Miss Baring could not be said to be decorative, but her small contribution to the social food was always oil—oil, rarely sharpened by the faintest dash of vinegar. Her brother was known to contain pepper—and red pepper, too—with which, on rare occasions, he had sprinkled the audience. But, as a rule, the stopper from the bottle was not removed. He bore in stolid silence with the conversation of men whom he could not respect, and one woman for whom he had a profound contempt. His remaining here so long had been a matter of necessity; his departure was, as regarded the pension, as much a relief to himself as to the society around him.
One day, a fortnight later, Monsieur Melchior called at Madame Martineau's. There, by a series of adroit inquiries, he elicited three facts. Miss Shaw had left Paris. Mr. Baring and his invalid sister had been inmates of the same pension. The three friends had gone together to Mentone.
He said to himself with a smile, as he turned away—
"I am balked for the moment. But when I am at Monte Carlo, by-and-by, I will follow it up. The drama is a little complicated, apparently, but it will amuse me to ferret it all out."