“The duenna will be made blind and harmless in the next room inspecting bargains. If we arrange to have Bodé Volcker’s stock low enough, the Countess de Pariza is good for an hour of rapture and bargains. Besides, they will probably be coming in to-day to learn the talk of the town, about the great drinking bout between”—here the painter flushes with indignation—“between the man who disgraces his genius and his art, by intemperance, and the Six Drunkards of Brussels. You have seen it placarded on the walls of the inns and wine houses, bearing the name of the greatest artist the Netherlands has yet produced, the Raphael of the North, the man whose disciple I was, the man whose altar piece in the great Church of Our Dear Lady would have made him renowned forever had it not been burnt by the Iconoclasts four years ago, when they threw down all the images of the church, and destroyed innumerable masterpieces of art, in blind rage at the Inquisition. I and another old pupil of Floris’s saved that night one picture of his, a smaller one, ‘The Fall of the Angels;’ it is not his best work; in fact, it is very much beneath his genius, but it is the one thing of his that will go down to posterity, for now he has become a sot and a drunkard,” and Oliver sighs.
“Very well,” cries Guy, breaking in upon the artist’s indignant rhapsody, during which he has remembered he has not eaten since he has risen. “Now having finished our business, perhaps when Achille returns with the provisions you will give me a little breakfast, [[65]]perchance a little pigeon pie, eh?” and he playfully pokes the painter in the ribs, for Antony’s remarks about Hermoine de Alva have made this audacious young man very jovially happy.
It is a laughing remark, but the laugh dies away as Guy sees its extraordinary effect upon the Flemish painter. At the words “pigeon pie” Oliver’s face grows pale. He turns and says suspiciously: “What do you know about pigeon pie?”
“Only what I heard last evening from little Marvedie, son of Touraine the barber.”
“What did he say about pigeon pie?” asks the painter, whose manner begins to impress Guy, as he mutters; “Speak quick—our lives may depend upon it!”
“Only this,” says the Englishman, “that when you were here he had plenty of pigeon pie. He asked me if I liked pigeon pie, and then afterward—I think, yes, I am almost positive, he said perhaps he wouldn’t have so much pigeon pie now, as a man had taken away so many pigeons.”
“A man—taken away so many pigeons—from here!” falters Antony. Then he suddenly exclaims: “That explains why there were no letters from Louis of Nassau in my cote above—no pigeons bearing them. I thought it was curious; I was nervous. My God! I must know.”
Just then a rap coming upon the door he draws aside the curtain and opens it, confronting his apprentice Achille, a bright-eyed French youth, who says discontentedly: “I can’t get anything without the cash. Our great artist, Frans Floris, owes so much money that no other artists can buy anything for credit.”
“Very well, put down your basket. I’ll see if I can get you some money,” says Oliver meditatively. Then a sudden idea seems to come to him, he cries: “Achille, where is little Marvedie? Bring him up, and we’ll send out and get some pigeons, and have some pigeon pie for him,” affecting great lightness of manner, though with evident effort.
“All right. Marvedie is death on pigeon pie, and so am I,” says the youth, and flies downstairs.