Charles was half-startled, and half-scornful. "What did he die of? Fright?"
The artist bent his gaze on his sketch again. "Perhaps," he said. "Yet me, I do not think he died of fright." He began to squeeze paint from one of his tubes. "You will go back to your Priory, m'sieur, but you will remember what I say, is it not?"
"Certainly," Charles said. "And I shall hope to see your picture again when it is more finished, if you will let me."
There was something rather pathetic about the way Duval looked up at that, unpleasant though the man's personality might be. "You like it enough to wish to see more? But I have many pictures in my cottage, perhaps not so fine as this, but all, all full of my genius! One day perhaps you come to see me, and I show you. Perhaps you will see something you like enough to buy from me, hero?"
"That was what I was thinking," lied Charles.
The Monk was forgotten; avarice gleamed in the artist's eye. He said swiftly: "Bon! You come very soon, and I show you the best that I have painted. Perhaps you come to-morrow? Or the day after?"
"Thanks, I'd like to come to-morrow if I may. Shall we say about this time?" He consulted his wrist-watch. "Halfpast three? Or does that break into your working hours?"
"But no! I am quite at your service," M. Duval assured him.
"Then au revoir," Charles said. "I'll see you tomorrow."
M. Duval's farewell was as cordial as his greeting had been surly. Charles walked briskly back to the village, trying as he went to separate the grain of his talk from the chaff.