The other, knowing that painters are not always in a giving mood, and that the remembrance of promises is short, seized the opportunity. In his capacity as Inspector of Fine Arts, he possessed a gallery that had been furnished with skill.
“I am with you,” said he.
They entered.
The valet was aroused and soon brought some grog; and the talk was for some time all about painting. Bertin showed some studies, and begged Musadieu to take the one that pleased him best; Musadieu hesitated, disturbed by the gaslight, which deceived him as to tones. At last he chose a group of little girls jumping the rope on a sidewalk; and almost at once he wished to depart, and to take his present with him.
“I will have it taken to your house,” said the painter.
“No; I should like better to have it this very evening, so that I may admire it while I am going to bed,” said Musadieu.
Nothing could keep him, and Olivier Bertin found himself again alone in his house, that prison of his memories and his painful agitation.
When the servant entered the next morning, bringing tea and the newspapers, he found his master sitting up in bed, so pale and shaken that he was alarmed.
“Is Monsieur indisposed?” he inquired.
“It is nothing—only a little headache.”