He entered. It was an astonishing place, heaped up with mud, a chaos of clay and plaster. There were buckets filled with dirty water, sprinklers, hammers, pieces of old iron.
“Where am I?” thought Phil. “This must be a school for sculpture done with the feet! Have I made a mistake?”
“Why don’t you come in?” roared the voice. “This side! Don’t upset my statue! Look out for my ‘Fraternity’! Troun de Diou! don’t tread on my potatoes!”
Phil passed over all obstacles and came into the presence of the giant of the place. He was a short, thick-set creature, whose gaping shirt showed a breast as hairy as a monkey’s back. With his fingers he was kneading clay, and he raised furious eyes to Phil. Behind him a little monsieur lay stretched on a lounge, playing with his monocle; but where was Suzanne?
“Monsieur—excuse me! I have made a mistake!” Phil stammered.
“No harm done!” said the hairy one, mollified by Phil’s correct dress and high standing collar; and he added: “At your service, monsieur!”
Phil showed his letter. “I thought I should find here Mlle. Suzanne, an actress,” he said.
“Suzanne! It’s me!” cried a gay voice from the ceiling.
Phil looked up in the air. A charming blonde with bare arms and feet, in a white waist and black petticoat, was seated on top of a scaffolding, looking at Phil with laughing eyes.
“Mlle. Suzanne, my model!” said the man.