"He allowed me a respite."
"It was for twelve months?"
"Precisely. What rapid intuitions you have!—if I could remain in Paris, we should become great friends. He allowed me twelve months' respite. If, at the end of that time, Art was still inadequate to supply my board and lodging, it was covenanted that, without any more ado, I should resign myself to clerical employment at Nantes. The merchant there is a friend of the family, and had offered to demonstrate his friendship by paying me too little to live on. Enfin, Fame has continued coy. The year expires to-night. I have begged a few comrades to attend a valedictory dinner—and at the stroke of midnight, despairing I depart!"
"Is there a train?"
"I do not depart from Paris till after breakfast to-morrow; but at midnight I depart from myself, I depart psychologically—the Achille Flamant of the Hitherto will be no more."
"I understand," said madame Aurore, moved. "As you say, in my own way I am an artist, too, there is a bond between us. Poor fellow, it is indeed a crisis in your life!… Who put the crape bows on the bottles? they are badly tied. Shall I tie them properly for you?"
"It would be a sweet service," said Flamant, "and I should be grateful.
How gentle you are to me—pomade, bows, nothing is too much for you!"
"You must give me your Nantes address," she said, "and I will post the pot without fail."
"I shall always keep it," he vowed—"not the pomade, but the pot—as a souvenir. Will you write a few lines to me at the same time?"
Her gaze was averted; she toyed with her spoon. "The directions will be on the label," she said timidly.