"Excursion to the galleries of le Duc de Mouvel!" exclaimed the artist, astonished. "But surely I know nothing of such a visit—no, madame."
Helen explained more at length, and mentioned the names of some of those whom John had said were to be of the party.
Her companion's brow contracted in a frown of mingled sorrow and displeasure.
"I know nothing of it," he reiterated; "and the persons madame has named are dilettante—they are 'no good,' as you say in America. They waste time—they have a love for wine, women, and frolic; and it is regrettable that monsieur finds pleasure in their company."
Helen sighed; her heart was very heavy.
"Monsieur is one natural artist," the master resumed, bending a compassionate gaze on her white face; "born with talent and the love of art. He has the true eye for color, outline, perspective; the free, steady, skillful hand. He would do great work with the stable mind, but—pardon, madame—he is what, in English, you call—lazy. He will not exercise the necessary application. To make the great artist there must be more, much more, than mere talent, the love of the beautiful, and skillful wielding of the brush; there must be the will to work, work, work. Ah, if madame could but inspire monsieur with ambition—real enthusiasm—to accomplish something, to finish his pictures, he might yet win fame for himself; but the indifference, the indolence, the lack of moral responsibility, and the love of pleasure—ah, it all means failure!"
"But—the Duc de Mouvel—is there such a man? Has he a rare collection?" faltered Helen, thus betraying her suspicion that her husband had deceived her altogether regarding the motive of his absence.
"Yes, my child; I have the great pleasure of acquaintance with le Duc de Mouvel," kindly returned Monsieur Jacques, adding: "He is a great connoisseur in, and a generous patron of, all that is best in art; and if he has extended to your husband and his friends an invitation to view the wonderful pictures in his magnificent château at —— they have been granted a rare honor and privilege."
In her heart, Helen doubted that they had ever been the recipients of such an invitation; she believed it all a fabrication to deceive her and perhaps others. It was a humiliating suspicion; but it forced itself upon her and thrust its venomed sting deep into her soul.
"If there is anything I can do for madame at any time, I trust she will not fail to command me," Monsieur Jacques observed, with gentle courtesy, and breaking in upon the troubled reverie into which she had fallen.