There would be county gatherings to attend, and he would naturally be expected to hunt and to shoot. It had all seemed to him inexpressedly dreary. Now all that was, if Brander's fears were realized, at an end, even if it should not turn out to be as bad as that, the sum he would be called upon to pay might be sufficient to cripple the estate and to afford him a good and legitimate excuse for shutting up or letting the house, and going away to retrench until the liabilities were all cleared off.Of course he would have to work in earnest now, but even the thought of that was not altogether unpleasant.
"I believe it is going to be the best thing that ever happened to me," he said to himself. "I know that I should never have done anything if it hadn't been for this, and though I am not fool enough to suppose I am ever going to turn out anything great, I am sure that after a couple of years' hard work I ought to paint decently, and anyhow to turn out as good things as some of those men. It is just what I have always been wanting, though I did not know it. I am afraid I shall have to cut all those dear old fellows, for I should never be able to give myself up to work among them. I should say it would be best for me to go over to Paris; I can start on a fresh groove there. At my age I should not like to go through any of the schools here. I might have three months with Terrier; that would be just the thing to give me a good start; he is a good fellow but one who never earns more than bread and cheese.
"There isn't a man in our set who really knows as much about it as he does. He has gone through our own schools, was a year at Paris, and another at Rome. He has got the whole thing at his fingers' ends, and would make a splendid master if he would but go in for pupils, but with all that he can't paint a picture. He has not a spark of imagination, nor an idea of art; he has no eye for color, or effect. He can paint admirably what he sees, but then he sees nothing but bare facts. He is always hard up, poor fellow, and it would be a real boon to him to take me for three months and stick at it hard with me, and by the end of that time I ought to be able to take my place in some artist's school in Paris without feeling myself to be an absolute duffer among a lot of fellows younger than myself. By Jove, this news is like a breeze on the east coast in summer—a little sharp, perhaps, but splendidly bracing and healthy, just the thing to set a fellow up and make a man of him. I will go out for a walk and take the dogs with me."
He got up, went to the stables, and unchained the dogs, who leapt round him in wild delight, for the time of late had beenas dull for them as for him; told one of the stable boys to go to the house and say that he would not be back to lunch, and then went for a twenty mile walk over the hills, and returned somewhat tired with the unaccustomed exertion, but with a feeling of buoyancy and light-heartedness such as he had not experienced for a long time past. For the next week he remained at home, and then feeling too restless to do so any longer, went to town, telling Mr. Brander to let him know as soon as the committee, that had already commenced its investigations into the real state of the bank's affairs, made their first report.
The lawyer was much puzzled over Cuthbert's manner. It seemed to him utterly impossible that anyone should really be indifferent to losing a fine estate, and yet he could see no reason for Cuthbert's assuming indifference on so vital a subject unless he felt it. He even discussed the matter with his wife.
"I cannot understand that young Hartington," he said; "most men would have been completely crumpled up at the news I gave him, but he took it as quietly as if it had been a mere bagatelle. The only possible explanation of his indifference that I can think of is that he must have made some low marriage in London, and does not care about introducing his wife to the county; it is just the sort of thing that a man with his irregular Bohemian habits might do—a pretty model, perhaps, or some peasant girl he has come across when out sketching."
"He never did care particularly about anything," Mrs. Brander said, "and it may be he is really glad to get away from the country."
"That would be possible enough if he had a good income in addition to Fairclose, but all that he will have is that five thousand that came to him from his mother, and I should say he is likely enough to run through that in a couple of years at the outside, and then where will he be?"
"I can't think, Jeremiah, how you ever permitted his father to do such a mad thing as to take those shares."
"I know what I am doing, my dear, don't you worry yourself about that. You have been wanting me for a very long time togive up business and go into the country. How would Fairclose suit you?"
"You are not in earnest," she exclaimed, with an excitement very unusual to her. "You can't mean that?"
"I don't often say what I don't mean, my dear, and if Fairclose comes into the market, more unlikely things than that may come to pass; but mind, not a word of this is to be breathed."
"And do you really think it will come into the market?" she asked.
"As certain as the sun will rise to-morrow morning. We only held our first meeting to-day, but that was enough to show us that the directors ought all to be shut up in a lunatic asylum. The affairs of the bank are in a frightful state, simply frightful; it means ruin to every one concerned."
"It is fortunate, indeed, that you did not hold any shares, Jeremiah."
"I was not such a fool," he said, shortly, "as to trust my money in the hands of a body of men who were all no doubt excellent fellows and admirable county gentlemen, but who knew no more of business than babies, and who would be mere tools in the hands of their manager; and I had the excellent excuse that I considered the legal adviser of a bank should have no pecuniary stake whatever in its affairs, but be able to act altogether without bias."
There was an ironical smile on his lips, and his wife said, admiringly—
"How clever you are, Jeremiah."
"It did not require much cleverness for that," he said, with some complacency. "You can reserve your compliments, my dear, until we are established at Fairclose. All I ask is that you won't ask any questions or allude to the matter until it is settled, but leave it entirely in my hands. So far things are working in the right direction."
"Perhaps it will be a good thing for Cuthbert Hartington after all," she said, after sitting for some minutes in silence.
"No doubt it will," he said. "At any rate as he does nottake it to heart in the slightest degree, we need not worry ourselves over him."
"It is funny," she said, "but sometimes the idea has occurred to me that Cuthbert might some day take a fancy to one of our girls, and I might see one of them mistress at Fairclose; but I never dreamt I might be mistress there myself, and I can't guess, even now, how you can think of managing it."
"Don't you trouble to guess, at all, my dear; be content with the plum when it falls into your mouth, and don't worry yourself as to how I manage to shake the tree to bring the fruit down."
Three weeks later it became known definitely that after calling up the remainder of the bank's capital there would be a deficiency of nearly a million, and that every shareholder would be called upon to contribute to the full extent of his ability, to cover the losses. One or two letters from Mr. Brander had already prepared Cuthbert for the final result of the investigation, and he had already begun to carry out the plan he had marked out for himself. He had, as soon as he had returned, astonished his friends by informing them that he found that instead of coming into his father's estates, as he had expected, it was not likely he would ever touch a penny from them, as his father had been a shareholder in the Abchester Bank, and so he believed everything would be swept away.
"Fortunately," he went on, "I have got enough of my own to keep my head above water, and, I dare say you fellows won't believe me, but I mean to go to work in earnest."
The announcement was made to a dozen men who were smoking in Wilson's studio, he having returned the day before from Cornwall.
"Well, youngster, I won't commiserate with you," he growled. "I have been wondering since I heard from King last night what had kept you away, what on earth you would do with yourself now you have come into your money. I often thought it was the worst thing in the world for you that you had not got to work, and if you are really going to set to now, I believe the time will come when you will think that this misfortune is the best thing that ever happened to you."
"I am not quite sure that I do not think so already," Cuthbert replied. "I am not at all disposed to fancy myself a martyr, I can assure you. I mean to go over to Paris and enter an Art School there. I know what you fellows are. You would never let me work."
There was a general chorus of indignation.
"Well, how much do you work yourselves? You potter about for nine months in the year, and work for four or five hours a day for the other three."
"Saul among the prophets!" Wilson exclaimed. "The idea of Cuthbert Hartington rebuking us for laziness is rich indeed," and a roar of laughter showed the general appreciation of the absurdity.
"Never mind," Cuthbert said, loftily. "You will see; 'from morn till dewy eve,' will be my idea of work. It is the way you men loaf, and call it working, that has so far kept me from setting to. Now I am going to burst the bonds of the Castle of Indolence, and when I come back from Paris I shall try to stir you all up to something like activity."
There was another laugh, and then Wilson said, "Well, it is the best thing you can do to go abroad. I don't believe you would ever make a fresh start here."
"I have made fresh a start, Wilson; our respected brother Terrier here, has undertaken to teach me the rudiments, and for the next three months his studio doors will be closed to all visitors from ten to five."
"Is that so? I congratulate you, Cuthbert; that really looks like business, and if Terrier can't teach you how to use the brush and put on color no one can. Gentlemen, we will drink the health of the new boy. Here is to Cuthbert Hartington, and success to him." Glasses were raised and the sentiment heartily echoed.
For three months Cuthbert worked steadily; to his own surprise, not less than to that of his instructor, he found the hours none too long for him. During that time he had received a letter from Mr. Brander that surprised him.
"Dear Mr. Hartington,—In accordance with your instructionsI at once informed the Receiver of the bank that you were prepared to hand over the Fairclose estates for the benefit of the creditors, instead of waiting for the calls to be made, and that you wished the matter to be arranged as speedily as possible as you were shortly going abroad. The necessary deeds will in a few days be prepared. You will doubtless be surprised to hear that I have arranged with the Receiver for the purchase of the estates by private treaty. I have long been intending to retire from business, and have been on the lookout for an estate in the county. I hope this arrangement will not be displeasing to you."
As Mr. Brander had the reputation of being a wealthy man, and his wife's wishes that he should retire from business and purchase an estate in the county were public property, Cuthbert was not surprised, but at the same time he was not altogether pleased. He had never liked the lawyer. He had no particular grounds for not doing so, but he had as a boy an instinctive notion that he was a humbug.
"I wonder," he said to himself, "whether he has all along had an eye to Fairclose, and whether he really did his best to dissuade my father from making that disastrous investment. At any rate, it does not make any difference to me who is there. It might have been some stranger, some manufacturing fellow; I would rather think of Mary being at the old place than a man of that sort. He would have been more likely than Brander to be hard on the tenants, and to have sold off all the things and have turned the place inside out. I don't say that under ordinary circumstances I should choose Brander as a landlord, but he will know well enough that there would be nothing that would do him more harm in the county than a report that he was treating the Squire's tenants harshly. Well, I suppose I had better write him a line saying that I am glad to hear that he has bought the place, as I would naturally prefer that it should be in his hands than those of a stranger."
A fortnight later, Cuthbert, in looking over the "Abchester Guardian," which was sent to him weekly, as the subscription was not yet run out, read the following paragraph: "We understand that our greatly respected townsman, Mr. J. Brander, has purchased the house and estate of Fairclose, which has come into the market owing to the failure of the Abchester Bank, in which the late Mr. Hartington was most unfortunately a shareholder, and which has involved hundreds of families in ruin. The greatest sympathy is everywhere expressed for Mr. Cuthbert Hartington. We understand that the price given by Mr. Brander was £55,000. We believe that we are correct in stating that Mr. Brander was the holder of a mortgage of £15,000 on the estate."
"Mortgage for £15,000," Cuthbert repeated, "impossible. Why should my father have mortgaged the place? He could have no occasion to raise the money. His tastes were most simple, and I am sure that he never lived beyond his income. He paid me a handsome allowance, but, thank God, I never exceeded it. What in the world can this mean! I will write to Brander at once. No, I won't, I will write to the liquidator. If there was such a thing he is certain to have looked into it closely, for it was so much off the sum available for assets."
By return of post Cuthbert received the following letter:
"Dear Mr. Hartington—In reply to your question I beg to confirm the statement in the newspaper cutting you send to me. Mr. Brander was the holder of a mortgage for £15,000 on your father's estate. I looked into the matter very closely, as it came as a surprise upon us. Everything was in proper order. Mr. Brander's bank-book showed that he drew out £15,000 on the date of the mortgage, and the books of the bank confirm his book. Notice had been given to them a week previously that he would require that sum in notes and gold, and it was so paid over to him. His books also show payment of the interest, and his receipts for the same were found among Mr. Hartington's papers. There was, therefore, no shadow of a doubt possible as to the genuine nature of the mortgage.—Yours truly, W. H. Cox."
Although satisfied that for some reason or other his father had borrowed this sum on mortgage from his lawyer, Cuthbert was no less puzzled than before as to the purpose for which ithad been raised, or what his father could possibly have done with the money. He, therefore, wrote to Mr. Brander, saying that though it was a matter in which he had himself no pecuniary interest, he should be glad if he would inform him of the circumstance which led his father to borrow such a sum.
"I thought," he said, "that I knew everything about my father's money affairs, for he always spoke most openly about them to me, and he never let drop a word as to the mortgage or as to any difficulty in which he had involved himself, or any investment he had thought of making; and I am, therefore, entirely at a loss to understand how he could have required such a sum of money."
The lawyer's answer came in due course.
"My dear Mr. Hartingon,—I was in no way surprised at the receipt of your letter, and indeed have been expecting an inquiry from you as to the mortgage. It happened in this way: Some three years ago your father said to me, 'I want to raise £15,000 on the estate, Brander.' I was naturally greatly surprised, for acting for him as I did, I was, of course, aware that he lived well within his income. He went on, 'Of course you are surprised, Brander, but as you must know well most men have a skeleton in a cupboard somewhere. I have one, and as I am getting on in life I want to bury it for good. It makes no difference to you what it is, and I have no intention of going into the matter. It suffices that I want £15,000.' 'Of course there is no difficulty about that, sir,' I said, 'the estate is unencumbered, and as there is no entail you are free to do with it as you like. 'But I want it done quietly,' he said, 'I don't want it talked about that I have mortgaged Fairclose. The best plan by far would be for you to do it yourself, which I have no doubt you can do easily enough if you like.' I said that I would much rather have nothing to do with it, as I have always considered it a mistake for lawyers to become principals in money transactions with their clients, and had always refused to do anything of the sort. However, he put the matter so strongly that he at last induced me, against my better judgment, to consent to advance the money, and at his earnest request Ihanded him the money in notes, so that no one, even at the bank, should be aware that such a sum had passed between us. Of course the mortgage was drawn up in the usual form and duly executed and witnessed, and I have no doubt that the liquidator of the bank will be happy to show you your father's receipt for the money and the receipts given by me to him for the interest. As you say the matter does not pecuniarily affect you now, but at the same time I am naturally anxious you should satisfy yourself thoroughly that the transaction was in every respect a bona fide one."
Cuthbert sat for some time with the letter before him.
"I suppose the dear old dad must have got into some scrape or other years ago," he said to himself. "What it was it is no use wondering, still less inquiring about. I am surprised he never told me, but I suppose he could not wind himself up to the point, and I have no doubt he intended to tell me some day, and would have done so if he hadn't been carried off so suddenly. Anyhow, he knew me well enough to be sure that when I heard of this mortgage, and learned how it had been done that my love and respect for him would be sufficient to prevent my trying to search into his past. He little thought that the mortgage would not affect me to the extent of a penny. Well, there is an end of it, and I won't think any more about the matter the secret is dead and buried; let it rest there. And now it is time to be off to my work."
A year later Cuthbert Hartington was sitting in a room, somewhat better furnished than the majority of the students' lodgings, on the second floor of a house in Quartier Latin. The occupant of the room below, Arnold Dampierre, was with him. He was a man three or four years Cuthbert's junior, handsome, grave-eyed, and slightly built; he was a native of Louisiana, and his dark complexion showed a taint of Mulatto blood in his veins.
"So you have made up your mind to stay," he said.
"Certainly, I intend to see it through; in the first place I don't want to break off my work, and as you know am ambitious enough to intend to get a couple of pictures finished in time for the Salon, although whether they will hang there, is another matter altogether."
"Don't pretend to be modest, Cuthbert. You know well enough they will be hung, and more than that, they will be a success. I would wager a hundred dollars to a cent on it, though you haven't as yet settled on the subjects. You know that you are Goudé's favorite pupil and that he predicts great things for you, and there is not one of us who does not agree with him. You know what Goudé said of the last thing you did. 'Gentlemen, I should be proud to be able to sign my name in the corner of this picture, it is admirable.'"
"It was but a little thing," Cuthbert said, carelessly, but nevertheless coloring slightly, "I hope to do much better work in the course of another year." Then he went back to the former subject of conversation.
"Yes, I shall see it through. We have had a good many excitements already—the march away of the troops, and the wild enthusiasm and the shouts of 'À Berlin!' I don't think there was a soul in the crowd who was not convinced that the Germans were going to be crumpled up like a sheet of paper. It was disgusting to hear the bragging in the studio, and they were almost furious with me when I ventured to hint mildly that the Prussians were not fools, and would not have chosen this time to force France into a war if they had not felt that they were much better prepared for it than Napoleon was. Since then it has been just as exciting the other way—the stupor of astonishment, the disappointment and rage as news of each disaster came in; then that awful business at Sedan, the uprising of the scum here, the flight of the Empress, the proclamation of the Republic, and the idiotic idea that seized the Parisians that the Republic was a sort of fetish, and that the mere fact of its establishment would arrest the march of the Germans. Well, now we are going to have a siege, I suppose, and as I have never seen one, it will be interesting. Of course I have no shadow of faith in the chattering newspaper men and lawyers, who have undertaken the government of France; but they say Trochu is a good soldier, and Paris ought to be able to hold out for some time. The mobiles are pouring in, and I think they will fight well, especially the Bretons. Their officers are gentlemen, and though I am sure they would not draw a sword for the Republic, they will fight sturdily for France. I would not miss it for anything. I am not sure that I shan't join one of the volunteer battalions myself."
"You have nothing to do with the quarrel," his companion said.
"No, I have nothing to do with the quarrel; but if I were walking along the streets and saw a big lout pick a quarrel with a weaker one and then proceed to smash him up altogether, I fancy I should take a hand in the business. The Germans deliberately forced on the war. They knew perfectly well that when they put up a German Prince as candidate for the throne of Spain it would bring on a war with France. Why, we ourselves were within an ace of going to war with France when Guizot brought about the Spanish marriage, although it was comparatively of slight importance to us that Spain and France should be united. But to the French this thing was an absolutely vital question, for with Germany and Spain united their very existence would be threatened, and they had nothing for it but to fight, as Germany knew they would have to do."
"But the candidature was withdrawn, Hartington."
"Withdrawn! ay, after the damage was done and France in a flame of indignation. If a man meets me in the street and pulls me by the nose, do you think that if he takes off his hat and bows and says that he withdraws the insult I am going to keep my hands in my pockets? Twice already has France been humiliated and has stood it? Once when Prussia made that secret treaty with Bavaria and Baden, and threw it scornfully in her face; the second time over that Luxembourg affair. Does Germany think that a great nation, jealous of its honor and full of fiery elements, is going to stand being kicked as often as shechooses to kick her? You may say that France was wrong in going to war when she was really unprepared, and I grant she was unwise, but when a man keeps on insulting you, you don't say to yourself I must go and take lessons in boxing before I fight him. You would hit out straight even if he were twice as big as yourself. That is what I feel about it, Dampierre, and feeling so I fancy that when the thing begins here I shall get too hot over it to help joining in. Ah, here come some of the lads."
There was a clatter of feet on the staircase, and a moment later half a dozen young Frenchmen ran in in a state of wild excitement.
"They have entered Versailles, a party of their horsemen have been seen from Valerian, and a shot has been fired at them. They have fled."
"Well, I should think they naturally would," Cuthbert said. "A handful of horsemen are not likely to remain to be made targets of by the guns of Valerian."
"It is the beginning of the end," one of the students exclaimed. "Paris will assert herself, France will come to her assistance, and the Germans will find that it is one thing to fight against the armies of a despot, and another to stand before a free people in arms."
"I hope so, René, but I own I have considerable doubts of it. A man when he begins to fight, fights because he is there and has got to do it. If he does not kill the enemy he will be killed; if he does not thrash the enemy he will be thrashed; and for the time being the question whether it is by a despot or by a Provisional Government that he is ruled does not matter to him one single jot. As to the Parisians, we shall see. I sincerely hope, they will do all that you expect of them, but in point of fact I would rather have a battalion of trained soldiers than a brigade of untrained peasants or citizens, however full of ardor they may be."
"Ah, you English, it is always discipline, discipline."
"You are quite right, René, that is when it comes to fighting in the open; fighting in the streets of a town is a very differentthing. Then I grant individual pluck will do wonders. Look at Saragosa, look at Lucknow. Civilians in both cases fought as well as the best trained soldiers could do, but in the field discipline is everything. Putting aside the great battles where your feudal lords, with their brave but undisciplined followers, met our disciplined bow and billmen, look at the Jacquerie, the peasants were brave enough, and were animated by hate and despair, but they were scattered like chaff by mere handfuls of knights and men-at-arms. The Swiss have defended their mountains against the armies of despots, because they had mountains to defend, and were accustomed to scaling the rocks, and all good shots, just as the people of a town might hold their streets. I believe that you will hold Paris. I doubt whether the Germans will ever be able to enter your walls, but famine will enter, and, defend yourselves as obstinately as you may, the time must come when food will give out."
"As if we should wait to be starved," another of the students said scoffingly. "If the time comes when there's nothing to eat, we would set Paris on fire and hurl ourselves every man upon the Germans, and fight our way through. Do you think that they could block every road round Paris?"
"I know nothing about military affairs, Leroux, and therefore don't suppose anything one way or the other. I believe the Parisians will make a gallant defence, and they have my heartiest good wishes and sympathy, and when all you men join the ranks my intention is to go with you. But as to the end, my belief is that it will be decided not by Paris but by France."
"Bravo, bravo, Cuthbert," the others exclaimed, "that shows, indeed, that you love France. René said he thought you would shoulder a musket with us, but we said Englishmen only fought either for duty or interest, and we did not see why you should mix yourself up in it."
"Then you are altogether wrong. If you said Englishmen don't fight for what you call glory, you would be right, but you can take my word for it that in spite of what peace-at-any-price people may say, there are no people in the world who are more ready to fight when they think they are right, than Englishmen.We find it hard enough to get recruits in time of peace, but in time of war we can get any number we want. The regiments chosen to go to the front are delighted, those who have to stay behind are furious. Glory has nothing to do with it. It is just the love of fighting. I don't say that I am thinking of joining one of your volunteer battalions because I want to fight. I do so because I think you are in the right, and that this war has been forced upon you by the Germans, who are likely to inflict horrible sufferings on the city."
"Never mind why you are going to fight," Leroux said, "you are going to fight for us, and that is enough. You are a good comrade. And your friend, here, what is he going to do?"
"I shall join also," Dampierre said. "You are a Republic now, like our own, and of course my sympathies are wholly with you."
"Vive la Republique! Vive l'Americain!" the students shouted.
Cuthbert Hartington shrugged his shoulders.
"We were just starting for a stroll to the walls to see how they are getting on with the work of demolition. Are any of you disposed to go with us?"
They were all disposed, being in so great a state of excitement that anything was better than staying indoors quietly. The streets were full of people, carts were rumbling along, some filled with provisions, others with the furniture and effects of the houses now being pulled down outside theenciente, or from the villas and residences at Sèvres Meudon and other suburbs and villages outside the line of defence.
Sometimes they came upon battalions of newly-arrived mobiles, who were loudly cheered by the populace as they marched along; sturdy sunburnt peasants with but little of the bearing of soldiers, but with an earnest serious expression that seemed to say they would do their best against the foes who were the cause of their being torn away from their homes and occupations. Staff officers galloped about at full speed; soldiers of the garrison or of Vinoy's Corps, who had come in a day or two before, lounged about the streets looking in at the shops. No small proportion of the male population wore kepis, which showed that they belonged either to the National Guard or to the battalions that were springing into existence.
"Why do we not register our names to-day!" René exclaimed.
"Because a day or two will make no difference," Cuthbert replied, "and it is just as well to find out before we do join something about the men in command. Let us above all things choose a corps where they have had the good sense to get hold of two or three army men, who have had experience in war, as their field officers. We don't want to be under a worthy citizen who has been elected solely because he is popular in his quarter, or a demagogue who is chosen because he is a fluent speaker, and has made himself conspicuous by his abuse of Napoleon. This is not the time for tomfoolery; we want men who will keep a tight hand over us, and make us into fair soldiers. It may not be quite agreeable at first, but a corps that shows itself efficient is sure to be chosen when there is work to be done, and will be doing outpost duty, whilst many of the others will be kept within the walls as being of no practical use. Just at present everything is topsy-turvy, but you may be sure that Trochu and Vinoy, and the other generals will gradually get things into shape, and will not be long before they find what corps are to be depended on and what are not."
Crossing the river they made their way out beyond the walls. Even the light-hearted students were sobered by the sight beyond. Thousands of men were engaged on the work of demolition. Where but ten days since stood villas surrounded by gardens and trees, there was now a mere waste of bricks and mortar stretching down to the Forts of Issy and Vanves. The trees had all been felled and for the most part cut up and carried into Paris for firewood. Most of the walls were levelled, and frequent crashes of masonry showed that these last vestiges of bright and happy homes would soon disappear. A continuous stream of carts and foot-passengers came along the road to the gate—the men grim and bitter, the women crying, and all ladenwith the most valued of their little belongings. Numbers of cattle and herds of sheep, attended by guards, grazed in the fields beyond the forts.
"By Jove, Dampierre," Cuthbert said, "if I hadn't made up my mind to join a corps before, this scene would decide me. It is pitiful to see all these poor people, who have no more to do with the war than the birds in the air, rendered homeless. A good many of the birds have been rendered homeless too, but fortunately for them it is autumn instead of spring, and they have neither nests nor nestlings to think of, and can fly away to the woods on the slopes below Meudon."
"What a fellow you are, Hartington, to be thinking of the birds when there are tens of thousands of people made miserable."
"I fancy the birds are just as capable of feeling misery as we are," Cuthbert said quietly, "not perhaps over trivial matters, though they do bicker and quarrel a good deal among themselves, but they have their great calamities, and die of thirst, of hunger, and of cold. I remember during a very hard frost some years ago our garden was full of dying birds, though my father had bushels of grain thrown to them every day. It was one of the most painful sights I ever saw, and I know I felt pretty nearly as much cut up at it as I do now. I hate to see dumb animals suffer. There is a sort of uncomplaining misery about them that appeals to one, at any rate appeals to me, infinitely. These poor fellows are suffering too, you will say. Yes, but they have their consolation. They promise themselves that as soon as they get into Paris they will join a corps and take vengeance on those who have hurt them. They may think, and perhaps with reason, that when the trouble is over, they will find their cottages still standing, and will take up life again as they left it. They have at least the consolation of swearing, a consolation which, as far as I know, is denied to animals and birds."
"You are a rum fellow, Hartington, and I never know when you are in earnest and when you are not."
"Let us go back," René Caillard, who, with the others, hadbeen standing silently, said abruptly. "This is too painful; I feel suffocated to think that such a humiliation should fall on Paris. Surely all civilized Europe will rise and cry out against this desecration." He turned and with his comrades walked back towards the gate. Cuthbert followed with Arnold Dampierre.
"That is just the way with them," the former said, "it would have been no desecration had they encamped before Berlin, but now, because it is the other way, they almost expect a miracle from Heaven to interpose in their favor. Curious people the French. Their belief in themselves is firm and unshakable, and whatever happens it is the fault of others, and not of themselves. Now, in point of fact, from all we hear, the Germans are conducting the war in a very much more humane and civilized way than the French would have done if they had been the invaders, and yet they treat their misfortunes as if high Heaven had never witnessed such calamities. Why, the march of the Germans has been a peaceful procession in comparison with Sherman's march or Sheridan's forays. They have sacked no city, their path is not marked by havoc and conflagration; they fight our men, and maybe loot deserted houses, but as a rule unarmed citizens and peasants have little to complain of."
"That is true enough," the other agreed reluctantly.
"My opinion is," Cuthbert went on, "that all these poor people who are flocking into Paris are making a hideous mistake. If they stopped in their villages the betting is that no harm would have come to them; whereas now they have left their homes unguarded and untenanted—and it would not be human nature if the Germans did not occupy them—while in Paris they will have to go through all the privations and hardships of a siege and perhaps of a bombardment; besides there are so many more hungry mouths to feed. In my opinion Trochu and the Provisional Government would have acted very much more wisely had they issued an order that no strangers, save those whose houses have been destroyed, should be allowed to enter the city, and advising the inhabitants of all the villages round either to remain quietly in their homes, or to retire to places ata distance. Fighting men might, of course, come in, but all useless mouths will only hasten the date when famine will force the city to surrender."
"You seem very sure that it will surrender sooner or later, Hartington," Dampierre said, irritably. "My opinion is that all France will rise and come to her rescue."
"If Bazaine cuts his way out of Metz they may do it, but we have heard nothing of his moving, and the longer he stays the more difficulty he will have of getting out. He has a fine army with him, but if he once gives time to the Germans to erect batteries commanding every road out of the place, he will soon find it well-nigh impossible to make a sortie. Except that army France has nothing she can really rely upon. It is all very well to talk of a general rising, but you can't create an army in the twinkling of an eye; and a host of half-disciplined peasants, however numerous, would have no chance against an enemy who have shown themselves capable of defeating the whole of the trained armies of France. No, no, Dampierre, you must make up your mind beforehand that you are going in on the losing side. Paris may hold out long enough to secure reasonable terms, but I fancy that is about all that will come of it."
The other did not reply. He had something of the unreasoning faith that pervaded France, that a Republic was invincible, and that France would finally emerge from the struggle victorious.
"We shall try and find out to-night about the corps," René Caillard said, as the others overtook them some distance inside the gates. "After what we have seen to-day we are all determined to join without delay. I heard last night from some men at Veillant's that they and a good many others have put their names down for a corps that is to be called the Chasseurs des Écoles. They said they understood that it was to be composed entirely of students. Not all art, of course, but law and other schools."
"That would be just the thing," Cuthbert said, "if they can only get some good officers. One likes the men one has towork with to be a little of one's own class. Well, if the officers are all right you can put my name down. I suppose there is no occasion for me to go myself."
"Of course there is occasion, lazy one. You have to be sworn in."
Cuthbert nodded. "I suppose we shan't have to give up work altogether?"
"I should think not," René said. "I suppose we shall have two or three hours' drill in the morning and nothing more till the time for action comes. Of course the troops and the mobiles will do the work at the forts and walls, and we shall be only called out if the Prussians venture to attack us, or if we march out to attack them."
"So much the better. I came here to work, and I want to stick to it and not waste my time in parades and sentry duty. Well, we shall meet at the studio in the morning and you can give us your news then."
Some fifteen young men met on the following morning at Goudé's studio.
"Now, gentlemen," said the artist, a short man, with a large head, and an abundant crop of yellow hair falling on to his shoulders, "please to attend to business while you are here. Paint—you have plenty of time outside to discuss affairs."
M. Goudé was an artist of considerable talent, but of peppery temper. He had at one time gone to war with the Hanging Committee of the Salon because one of his paintings had been so badly hung that he declared it to be nothing short of an insult, and had forthwith proceeded to publish the most violent strictures upon them. The result was that on the following year his pictures were not hung at all, whereupon, after another onslaught upon them, he had declared his determination never again to submit a picture to the judgment of men whose natural stupidity was only equalled by their ignorance of art.
This vow he had for eight years adhered to, only occasionally painting a picture and selling it privately, but devoting himself almost entirely to the studio he had opened, when he ceasedexhibiting. He was an admirable teacher and his list of pupils was always full. He was an exacting master and would take none but students who showed marked ability. As a preliminary picture had to be presented to him for examination, and at least three out of four of the canvases sufficed to ensure their authors' prompt rejection.
It was, therefore, considered an honor to be one of Goudé's pupils, but it had its drawbacks. His criticisms were severe and bitter; and he fell into violent passions when, as Leroux once observed, he looked like the yellow dwarf in a rage. Cuthbert had heard of him from Terrier, who said that Goudé had the reputation of being by far the best master in Paris. He had presented himself to him as soon as he arrived there; his reception had not been favorable.
"It is useless, Monsieur," the master had said, abruptly, "there are two objections. In the first place you are too old, in the second place you are a foreigner, and I do not care to teach foreigners. I never had but one here, and I do not want another. He was a Scotchman, and because I told him one day when he had produced an atrocious daub, that he was an imbecile pig, he seized me and shook me till my teeth chattered in my head, and then kicked over the easel and went out."
"You may call me an imbecile pig if you like," Cuthbert said with his quiet smile, "it would hurt me in no way. I have come over to learn, and I am told you are the best master in Paris. When a man is a great master he must be permitted to have his peculiarities, and if he likes to treat grown-up men as children, of course he can do so, for are we not children in art by his side."
Monsieur Goudé was mollified, but he did not show it.
"Have you brought any canvases with you?"
"I have brought the last two things I did before leaving London."
"Well, you can bring them if you like," the master said, ungraciously, "but I warn you it will be useless. You English cannot paint, even the best of you. You have no soul, you are monotonous, but you may bring them."
An hour later Cuthbert returned to the studio, which was now occupied by the students.
"You are prompt," the master said, looking round from the student whose work he was correcting with no small amount of grumbling and objurgation. "Put your things on those two spare easels, I will look at them presently."
Seeing that several of the other students were smoking, Cuthbert filled and lighted his pipe, calmly placed the pictures on the easels without taking off the cloths in which they were wrapped, and then put his hands into the pockets of his velvet jacket and looked round the room. After his experience of some of the luxuriously arranged studios at St. John's Wood, the room looked bare and desolate. There was no carpet and not a single chair or lounge of any description. Some fifteen young fellows were painting. All wore workmen's blouses. All had mustaches, and most of them had long hair. They appeared intent on their work, but smiles and winks were furtively exchanged, and the careless nonchalance of this tall young Englishman evidently amused them. In four or five minutes M. Goudé turned round and walked towards the easels. Cuthbert stepped to them and removed the cloths. The master stopped abruptly, looked at them without speaking for a minute or two, then walked up and closely examined them.
"They are entirely your own work?" he asked.
"Certainly, I did not show either of them to my master until I had finished them."
They were companion pictures. The one was a girl standing in a veranda covered with a grapevine, through which bright rays of sunshine shone, one of them falling full on her face. She was evidently listening, and there was a look of joyous expectancy in her face. Underneath, on the margin of the canvas, was written in charcoal, "Hope." The other represented the same figure, darkly dressed, with a wan, hopeless look in her face, standing on a rock at the edge of an angry sea, over which she was gazing; while the sky overhead was dark and sombre without a rift in the hurrying clouds. It was labelled "Despair."
For two or three minutes longer M. Goudé looked silently at the pictures and then turning suddenly called out, "Attention, gentlemen. Regard these pictures, they are the work of this gentleman who desires to enter my studio. In the eight years I have been teaching I have had over two hundred canvases submitted to me, but not one like these. I need not say that I shall be glad to receive him. He has been well taught. His technique is good and he has genius. Gentlemen, I have the honor to present to you Monsieur Cuthbert Hartington, who is henceforth one of you."
The students crowded round the pictures with exclamations of surprise and admiration. It was not until M. Goudé said sharply "to work," that they returned to their easels.
"You will find canvases in that cupboard if you like to set at work at once. Choose your own size and subject and sketch it out in chalk. I should like to see how you work. Ah, you have a portfolio. I will look through your sketches this afternoon if you will leave it here."
Cuthbert chose a canvas from a pile ready stretched, selected a sketch from his portfolio of a wayside inn in Normandy, pinned it on the easel above the canvas, and then began to work. M. Goudé did not come near him until the work was finished for the morning, then he examined what he had just done.
"You work rapidly," he said, "and your eye is good. You preserve the exact proportions of the sketch, which is excellent, though it was evidently done hastily, and unless I mistake was taken before you had begun really to paint. You did not know how to use color, though the effect is surprisingly good, considering your want of method at the time. I will look through your portfolio while I am having my lunch. In an hour we resume work." So saying he took up the portfolio and left the room. The students now came up to Cuthbert and introduced themselves one by one.
"You see our master in his best mood to-day," one said. "I never have seen him so gracious, but no wonder. Now we have no ceremony here. I am René, and this is Pierre, and this Jean, and you will be Cuthbert."
"It is our custom in England," Cuthbert said, "that a new boy always pays his footing; so gentlemen, I hope you will sup with me this evening. I am a stranger and know nothing of Paris; at any rate nothing of your quarter, so I must ask two of you to act as a committee with me, and to tell me where we can get a good supper and enjoy ourselves."
From that time Cuthbert had been one of the brotherhood and shared in all their amusements, entering into them with a gayety and heartiness that charmed them and caused them to exclaim frequently that he could not be an Englishman, and that his accent was but assumed. Arnold Dampierre had been admitted two months later. He had, the master said, distinct talent, but his work was fitful and uncertain. Some days he would work earnestly and steadily, but more often he was listless and indolent, exciting M. Goudé's wrath to fever heat.
Among the students he was by no means a favorite. He did not seem to understand a joke, and several times blazed out so passionately that Cuthbert had much trouble in soothing matters down, explaining to the angry students that Dampierre was of hot southern blood and that his words must not be taken seriously. Americans, he said, especially in the south, had no idea of what the English call chaff, and he begged them as a personal favor to abstain from joking with him, or it would only lead to trouble in the studio.
There was no more talk after the master had given the order for work. Most of the easels were shifted round and fresh positions taken up, then there was a little pause.
"She is late," M. Goudé said, with an impatient stamp of the foot. The words were scarcely out of his mouth when the door opened and a girl entered.
"Good-morning, messieurs," and she made a sweeping courtesy.
"You are five minutes late, Minette."
"Ma foi, master, what would you have with the Prussians in sight and all Paris in the streets—five minutes mean neither here nor there. I expected praise for having come at all."
"There, there," the artist said hastily, "run into your closet and change, we are all waiting."
She walked across the room to a door in the corner, with an expression of careless defiance in her face, and reappeared in five minutes in the dress of a Mexican peasant girl attired for a fête. The dress suited her admirably. She was rather above the middle height, her figure lithe and supple with exceptionally graceful curves; her head was admirably poised on her neck. Her hair was very dark, and her complexion Spanish rather than French. Her father was from Marseilles and her mother from Arles.
Minette was considered the best model in Paris, and M. Goudé had the merit of having discovered her. Three years before, when passing through a street inhabited by the poorer class of workmen in Montmartre, he had seen her leaning carelessly against a doorway. He was struck with the easy grace of her pose. He walked up the street and then returned. As he did so he saw her spring out and encounter an older woman, and at once enter upon a fierce altercation with her. It was carried on with all the accompaniment of southern gesture and ceased as suddenly as it began; the girl, with a gesture of scorn and contempt turning and walking back to the post she had left with a mien as haughty as that of a Queen dismissing an insolent subject.
"That girl would be worth a fortune as a model," the artist muttered. "I must secure her; her action and gesture are superb." He walked up to her, lifted his broad hat, and said "Mademoiselle, I am an artist. My name is Goudé. I have an academy for painting, and I need a model. The work is not hard, it is but to sit or stand for two or three hours of a morning, and the remuneration I should offer would be five francs a day for this. Have I your permission to speak to your parents?"
There was an angry glitter in her eye—a change in her posethat, slight as it was, reminded the artist of a cat about to spring.
"A model for a painter, monsieur? Is it that you dare to propose that I shall sit without clothes to be stared at by young men? I have heard of such things. Is this what monsieur wishes?"
"Not at all, not at all," Mr. Goudé said hastily. "Mademoiselle would always be dressed. She would be sometimes a Roman lady, sometimes a Spanish peasant, a Moorish girl, a Breton, or other maiden. You would always be free to refuse any costume that you considered unsuitable."
Her expression changed again. "If that is all, I might do it," she said; "it is an easy way of earning money. How often would you want me?"
"I should say three times a week, and on the other three days you would have no difficulty in obtaining similar work among artists of my own acquaintance. Here is my card and address."
The girl took it carelessly.
"I will speak to my father about it this evening when he comes home from work. You are quite sure that I shall not have to undress at all?"
"I have assured mademoiselle already that nothing of the sort will be required of her. There are models indeed who pose for figure, but these are a class apart, and I can assure mademoiselle that her feelings of delicacy will be absolutely respected."
The next day Minette Dufaure appeared at the studio and had ever since sat for all the female figures required. The air of disdain and defiance she had first shown soon passed away, and she entered with zest and eagerness upon her work. She delighted in being prettily and becomingly dressed. She listened intelligently to the master's descriptions of the characters that she was to assume, and delighted him with the readiness with which she assumed suitable poses, and the steadiness with which she maintained them.
There was nothing of the stiffness of the model in her attitudes. They had the charm of being unstudied and natural, and whether as a bacchanal, a peasant girl, or a Gaulish amazon, she looked the part equally well; her face was singularly mobile, and although this was an inferior consideration to the master, she never failed to represent the expression appropriate to the character she assumed.
Her reputation was soon established among the artists who occasionally dropped into Goudé's studio, and her spare time was fully occupied, and that at much higher rates of pay than those she earned with him. After the first two or three months she came but twice a week there, as that amply sufficed for the needs of the studio. On his telling her that he should no longer require her to come three times a week, as his pupils had other things to learn besides drawing the female figure, the master said—
"I must pay you higher in future, Minette. I know that my friends are paying you five francs an hour."
"A bargain is a bargain," she said. "You came to me first, and but for you I should never have earned a penny. Now we have moved into a better street and have comfortable lodgings. We have everything we want, and I am laying by money fast. You have always treated me well, and I like you though your temper is even worse than my father's. I shall keep to my agreement as long as you keep to yours, and if you do not I shall not come here at all."
With the students Minette was a great favorite. In the pause of five minutes every half-hour to allow her to change her position, she chatted and laughed with them with the frankest good temper, more than holding her own in the sallies of chaff. When they occasionally made excursions in a body into the country to sketch and paint, she was always of the party, going in the capacity of comrade instead of that of a model, contributing a full share to the lunch basket, but ready to pose as a peasant girl with a fagot on her head, a gleaner, or a country-woman with a baby on her lap, according to the scene and requirements. It was a matter of course that Minette should be present at every supper party or little fêteamong the students, always being placed in the seat of honor at the head of the table, and joining in all the fun of those merry reunions. For a time she treated all alike as comrades, and accepted no compliments save those so extravagant as to provoke general laughter. Gradually, however, it came to be understood among the students that Minette made an exception in the case of Arnold Dampierre, and that on occasions when they happened to break up in pairs he was generally by her side.
"One never can tell what women will do," René Caillard said one evening, when five or six of them were sitting smoking together. "Now, Minette might have the pick of us."
"No, no, René," one of the others protested, "most of us are suited already."
"Well, several of us, then. I am at present unattached, and so are André, and Pierre, and Jean; so is Cuthbert. Now, putting us aside, no woman in her senses could hesitate between the Englishman and Dampierre. He has a better figure, is stronger and better looking. He is cleverer, and is as good-tempered as the American is bad; and yet she takes a fancy for Dampierre, and treats all the rest of us, including the Englishman, as if we were boys."
"I fancy women like deference," Pierre Leroux said. "She is a good comrade with us all, she laughs and jokes with us as if she were one of ourselves. Now the American very seldom laughs and never jokes. He treats her as if she were a duchess and takes her altogether seriously. I believe he would be capable of marrying her."
The others all burst into a laugh.
"What are you laughing at?" Cuthbert asked, as he entered the room at the moment.
"Pierre is just saying that he thinks the American is capable of marrying Minette."
"I hope not," Cuthbert said, more seriously than he generally spoke. "Minette is altogether charming as she is. She is full of fun and life; she is clever and sparkling. There is no doubt that in her style she is very pretty. As to her graceit needs no saying. I think she is an honest good girl, but the idea of marrying her would frighten me. We see the surface and it is a very pleasant one, but it is only the surface. Do you think a woman could look as she does in some of her poses and not feel it? We have never seen her in a passion, but if she got into one, it would be terrible. When she flashes out sometimes it is like a tongue of flame from a slumbering volcano. You would feel that there might be an eruption that would sweep everything before it. As you know, I gave up painting her after the first two months, but I sketch her in every pose; not always her whole figure, but her face, and keep the sketches for use some day. I was looking through them only yesterday and I said to myself, 'this woman is capable of anything.' She might be a Joan of Arc, or Lucraetzia Borghia. She is a puzzle to me altogether. Put her in a quiet, happy home and she might turn out one of the best of women. Let her be thrown into turbulent times and she might become a demon of mischief. At present she is altogether undeveloped. She is two and twenty in years, but a child, or rather a piquant, amusing young girl, in manner, and perhaps in disposition. She is an enigma of which I should be sorry to have to undertake the solution. As she seems, I like her immensely, but when I try to fathom what she really is, she frightens me."
The others laughed.
"Poor little Minette," Pierre Leroux said. "You are too hard upon her altogether, Cuthbert. The girl is a born actress and would make her fortune on the stage. She can represent, by the instinct of art, passions which she has never felt. She can be simple and majestic, a laughing girl and a furious woman, a Christian martyr and a bacchanal, simply because she has mobile features, intelligence, sentiment, emotion, and a woman's instinct, that is all. She is a jolly little girl, and the only fault I have to find with her is that she has the bad taste to prefer that gloomy American to me."
"Well, I hope you are right, Pierre, though I hold my own opinion unchanged—at any rate I sincerely trust that Dampierre will not make a fool of himself with her. You men donot like him because you don't understand him. You are gay and light-hearted, you take life as it comes. You form connections easily and lightly, and break them off again a few months later just as easily. Dampierre takes life earnestly. He is indolent, but that is a matter of race and blood. He would not do a dishonorable action to save his life. I believe he is the heir to a large fortune, and he can, therefore, afford to work at his art in a dilettante sort of manner, and not like us poor beggars who look forward to earning our livelihood by it. He is passionate, I grant, but that is the effect of his bringing up on a plantation in Louisiana, surrounded by his father's slaves, for though they are now free by law the nature of the negro is unchanged, and servitude is his natural position. The little white master is treated like a god, every whim is humored, and there being no restraining hand upon him, it would be strange if he did not become hasty and somewhat arrogant.
"Not that there is any arrogance about Dampierre—he is unaffected and simple in his tastes, except in the matter of his lodgings. I question if there is one of us who spends less than he does, but he no more understands you than you understand him; he takes your badinage seriously, and cannot understand that it is harmless fun. However, he is better in that respect than when he first came over, and in time, no doubt, his touchiness will die out. God forbid that he should ever spoil his life by such a hideous mistake as marrying Minette. Except on the principle that people are always attracted by their opposites, I can't account for his infatuation for this girl, or for her taking up with him. He has never alluded to the subject to me. I don't know that her name has ever been mentioned between us. I agree with you that I think he is in earnest about her, but my conclusion is certainly not formed on anything he has ever said himself. I have often thought that a good deal of his irritability arises from his annoyance at her fun and easy way with us all. He never comes to any of our little meetings. If he is really in earnest about her, I can understand that it would be a terrible annoyance to him to see her taking a lead in such meetings and associating so freely with your, let us say,temporary wives. I have seen him on some of our sketching excursions walk away, unable to contain his anger when you have all been laughing and joking with her."
"I consider that to be an insolence," René said hotly.
"No, no, René, imagine yourself five years older, and making a fortune rapidly by your art, in love with some girl whom you hope to make your wife. I ask you whether you would like to see her laughing and chattingen bonne camaradewith a lot of wild young students. Still less, if you can imagine such a thing, joining heart and soul in the fun of one of their supper parties. You would not like it, would you?"
"No," René admitted frankly. "I own I shouldn't. Of course, I cannot even fancy such a thing occurring, but if it did I can answer for it that I should not be able to keep my temper. I think now that you put it so, we shall be able to make more allowances for the American in future."
To this the others all agreed, and henceforth the tension that had not unfrequently existed between Dampierre and his fellow-students was sensibly relaxed.
"You were not here last week, Minette," M. Goudé said, as he went up on to the platform at the end of the room to arrange her pose.
"I did not think that you would expect me, master," she said, "but even if you had I could not have come. Do you think that one could stand still like a statue for hours when great things were being done, when the people were getting their liberty again, and the flag of the despot was being pulled down from the Tuileries. I have blood in my veins, master, not ice."
"Bah!" M. Goudé exclaimed. "What difference does it make to you, or to anyone as far as I see, whether the taxes are levied in the name of an Emperor or of a Republic? Do you think a Republic is going to feed you any better and reduce your rents, or to permit Belleville and Montmartre to become masters of Paris? In a short time they will grumble at the Republic just as they grumble at the Emperor. It is folly and madness. The Emperor is nothing to me, the Government isnothing to me. I have to pay my taxes—they are necessary—for the army has to be kept up and the Government paid; beyond that I do not care a puff of my pipe what Government may call itself."
"You will see what you will see," said the girl, sententiously.
"I dare say, Minette, as long as I have eyes I shall do that. Now don't waste any more time."
"What am I to be, master?"
"A Spanish peasant girl dancing; hold these slips of wood in your hand, they are supposed to be castanets; now just imagine that music is playing and that you are keeping time to it with them, and swaying your body, rather than moving your feet to the music."
After two or three changes she struck an attitude that satisfied the master.
"That will do, Minette, stand as you are; you cannot improve that. Now, gentlemen, to work."
She was standing with one foot advanced, as if in the act of springing on to it; one of her arms was held above her head, the other advanced across her body; her head was thrown back, and her balance perfect.
Cuthbert looked up from his work, took out a note-book, and rapidly sketched the figure; and then, putting his book into his pocket again, returned to his work, the subject of which was a party of Breton mobiles, with stacked arms under some trees in the Champs Elysée. He had taken the sketch two days before and was now transferring it on to canvas.
"I should not be surprised," he thought to himself, "if the girl is right, and if there is not serious trouble brewing in the slums of Paris.
"As soon as these fellows find out that they are no better off for the change, and that a Republic does not mean beer and skittles, or, as they would like, unlimited absinthe and public workshops, with short hours and high pay, they will begin to get savage, and then there will be trouble. The worst of it is one can never rely upon the troops, and discipline is certainlymore relaxed than usual now that the Emperor has been upset, and every Jack thinks himself as good as his master. Altogether I think we are likely to have lively times here before long. I am not sure that the enemies within are not likely to prove as great a danger to Paris as the foe without. It was a happy idea of mine to come to Paris, and I am likely to get subjects enough to last for a life-time, though I don't know that battle scenes are altogether in my line. It does not seem to me that I have any line in particular yet. It is a nuisance having to decide on that, because I have heard Wilson say an artist, like a writer, must have a line, and when he has once taken it up he must stick to it. If a man once paints sea pieces the public look to get sea pieces from him, and won't take anything else. It is the same thing if he accustoms them to Eastern, or Spanish, or any other line.
"It maybe that this war will decide the matter for me, which will be a comfort and relief, though I doubt if I shall ever be able to stick in one groove. Goudé said only yesterday that I had better go on working at both figure and landscape. At present he could not give an opinion as to which I was likely to succeed in best, but that he rather fancied that scenes of life and action, combined with good backgrounds, were my forte, and battle scenes would certainly seem to come under that category."
After work was over Cuthbert went out by himself and spent the afternoon in sketching. He was engaged on a group of soldiers listening to one of their number reading a bulletin of the latest news, when his eye fell on a young lady walking with a brisk step towards him. He started, then closed his note-book suddenly, and as she was on the point of passing, turned to her and held out his hand.
"Have you dropped from the skies, Miss Brander?"
There was surprise, but neither embarrassment nor emotion on her face as she said, frankly—
"Why, Cuthbert Hartington, this is a curious meeting. I did know you were in Paris, for I had heard as much from my father, but I had no idea of your address and I have wondered many times since I came here, five weeks ago, whether we should runagainst each other. No, I have not dropped from the clouds, and you ought to have known I should be here; I told you that I was going to have a year in Germany and then a year in France. My year in Germany was up two months ago. I went home for a fortnight, and here I am as a matter of course."
"I might have known you would carry out your programme exactly as you had sketched it, but I thought that the disturbed state of things over here might have induced you to defer that part of the plan until a more appropriate season. Surely Paris is not just at present a pleasant abode for a young lady, and is likely to be a much more unpleasant one later on."
"I think there could hardly be a more appropriate time for being here, Mr. Hartington; one could have no better time for studying social problems than the present when conventionalities have gone to the winds and one sees people as they are; but this is hardly the place to talk. I am boarding with a family at No. 15 Avenue de Passy. Will you come and see me there?"
"Certainly I will, if you will allow me. What will be a convenient time?"
"I should say three o'clock in the afternoon. They are all out then, except Madame Michaud and her little daughter, and we shall be able to chat comfortably, which we could not do if you came in the evening, when the father is at home and two boys who are away at school during the day. Will you come to-morrow?"
"Yes, my afternoons are free at present."
She held out her hand and then walked away with a steady business-like step. Cuthbert stood watching her till she had disappeared in the crowd.
"She has no more sentiment in her composition at present," he said to himself with a laugh that had some bitterness in it, "than a nether millstone. Her mind is so wrapped up in this confounded fad of hers that there is no room in it for anything else. I might have been a cousin, instead of a man she had refused, for any embarrassment or awkwardness she felt at our sudden meeting. It clearly made no impression at all upon her. She remembers, of course, that she met me at Newquay. I don'tsuppose she has really forgotten that I asked her to be my wife, but it was a mere incident, and affected her no more than if I had asked her to buy a picture and she had refused. I wish to goodness I had not met her again. I had got fairly over it, and was even beginning to wonder how I ever could have wanted to marry anyone so different in every way from the sort of woman I fancied I should have fallen in love with. How foolish of her coming over to Paris at this time. Well, I daresay it has all saved a lot of trouble. I suppose at that time Brander would have been delighted at the prospect, but it would have been a very different thing after the failure of the bank. I don't think he would have made a pleasant father-in-law under the present circumstances. He is an old fox. I always thought so, and I think so more than ever now. It has been a queer affair altogether. I wonder what Mary thinks of it all. I suppose she will talk to me about it to-morrow afternoon. By the way, I have to go this evening with René and the others to be sworn in or attested, or whatever they call it, at the Mairie. Their report as to the officers is satisfactory. I have heard that Longfranc was an excellent officer before he came into some money, cut the army and took up art. I have no doubt he will make a good major, and he understands the men better than most army men would do. They say the Colonel is a good man, too, and was very popular with his regiment before he retired from the service."