“Not at all,” answered De Breulh quietly; “I have my own way of doing business, from which I never deviate.”
In spite of this answer Andre’s pride was hurt.
“But,” remarked he, “this picture will not be ready for perhaps six or seven months. I have entered into a contract with a wealthy builder, named Candele, to execute the outside decorations of his house.”
“Never mind that,” answered M. de Breulh; “take as long as you like.”
Of course, after this, Andre could offer no further opposition; he therefore took the money without another word.
“And now,” said De Breulh, as he paused for a moment at the open doorway, “let me wish you my good luck, and if you will come and breakfast with me one day, I think I can show you some pictures which you will really appreciate.” And handing his card to the artist, he went downstairs.
At first Andre did not glance at the card, but when he did so, the letters seemed to sear his eyeballs like a red-hot iron. For a moment he could hardly breathe, and then a feeling of intense anger took possession of him, for he felt that he had been trifled with and deceived.
Hardly knowing what he was doing, he rushed out on the landing, and, leaning over the banister, called out loudly, “Sir, stop a moment!”
De Breulh, who had by this time reached the bottom of the staircase, turned round.
“Come back, if you please,” said Andre.