Her tone had grown hard and dry—insulting almost. Her look sent him a challenge.
He stared at her dumbfounded. All the self-confidence with which he had hitherto governed his own world had deserted him. He was like a tongue-tied child in her hands.
She enjoyed her mastery, and his discomfiture. Her look changed and melted in an instant.
'I am rude,' she said, 'and you can't answer me back—not yet—for a day or two. Pardon! Monsieur David—Mademoiselle—will you come to supper?'
She put chairs and waved them to their places with the joyous animation of a child, waiting on them, fetching this and that, with the quickest, most graceful motions. She had brought from the armoire some fine white napkins, and now she produced a glass or two and made her guests provide themselves with the red wine which neither had ever tasted before, and over which Louie made an involuntary face. Then she began to chatter and to eat—both as fast as possible—now laughing at her own English or at David's French, and now laying down her knife and fork that she might look at Louie with an intent professional look which contrasted oddly with the wild freedom of her talk and movements.
Suddenly she took up a wineglass and held it out to David with a piteous childish gesture.
'Fill it, Monsieur, and then drink—drink to my good luck. I wish for something—with my life—my soul; but there are people who hate me, who would delight to see me crushed. And it will be three weeks—three long long weeks, almost—before I know.'
She was very pale, the tears had sprung to her eyes, and the hand holding the glass trembled. David flushed and frowned in the vain desire to understand her.
'What am I to do?' he said, taking the glass mechanically, but making no use of it.
'Drink!—drink to my success. I have two pictures, Monsieur, in the Salon; you know what that means? the same as your Academie? Parfaitement! ah! you understand. One is well hung, on the line; the other has been shamefully treated—but shamefully! And all the world knows why. I have some enemies on the jury, and they delight in a mean triumph over me—a triumph which is a scandal. But I have friends, too—good friends—and in three weeks the rewards will be voted. You understand? the medals, and the mentions honorables. As for a medal—no! I am only two years in the atelier; I am not unreasonable. But a mention!—ah! Monsieur David, if they don't give it me I shall be very miserable.'