This was no less than the truth. Privately Charles thought that Flinders' strictures were not without reason. The sketch before him was weird in the extreme, yet although it couldd hardly be said to represent the old mill, even Charles, no connoisseur, could see that it was executed with a certain perverted skill.
The artist sneered, and said disagreeably: "What do you English know of art? Nothing, I tell you!"
"I'm afraid you're right," Charles agreed. "But this, I take it, is not destined for our Academy? You exhibit in the Salon, no doubt?"
This piece of flattery found its mark. "It is true," M. Duval said. "With this picture, my chef-d'oeuvre, I make my name. The world will know me at last." The momentary fire died out of his face. He shrugged, and said with a return to his sullen manner: "But how should you appreciate a work of genius?"
"What strikes me particularly," Charles persevered, "is your treatment of shadows. In fact…'
"I see them red," M. Duval said sombrely. "Dull red."
"Very few people have the eye to see them like that," said Charles truthfully.
He soon found that no flattery was too gross to please M. Duval, and he proceeded, as he afterwards told Peter, to spread himself. At the end of twenty minutes the artist had mellowed considerably, and when Charles said solemnly that Framley was fortunate indeed to have attracted one who was so obviously a genius, he threw down his brush with a gesture of bitter loathing, and cried out: "You think I live here because I choose? Ah, mon Dieu!" He leaned forward on his camp-stool, and the hand which held his palette shook with some overpowering emotion. "I think all the time how I shall get away!" he said tensely. "Five years I have lived here, five years, m'sieur! Figure to yourselfl But the day comes when I see it no more. Then - poufl I am gone, I am free!" He seemed to recollect himself, and a smile of weak cunning showed his discoloured teeth. "You think I talk strangely, hein? Not like you English, who are always cold, like ice. To those others I am nothing but a mad Frenchman, but you, my friend, you have seen that I have a genius in me!" He slapped his chest as he spoke. "Here, in my soul! You have admired my picture; you have not laughed behind my back. And because you have sympathised, because you have recognised the true art, I will tell you something." He plucked at Charles' sleeve with fingers like talons, and his voice sank. "Take care, m'sieur, you who think to live in that house which is the home of Le Moine. I warn you, take care, and do not try to interfere with him. I tell you, it is not safe. You hear me? There is danger, much, much danger."
""Thanks for the warning," Charles said calmly. "But I don't really think a ghost could do me much harm, do you?"
The artist looked at him queerly. "I say only, take care. You have tried to find Le Moine, I think, because you do not believe in ghosts. But I tell you there is great danger."