XV
Early in November, Dampierre burst one morning into Fontenelle’s studio. They worked in the same house in the Rue Notre Dame des Champs, René on the top floor, François two flights lower down.
He looked up as his friend came in.
“Yes. I know. She’s coming,” he said, without ceasing to paint. “This background’s the very devil. It’s all wrong in tone.”
“How did you know?”
François nodded towards a side table. “There’s her note.”
Dampierre found it amongst a litter of brushes and palettes.
“Yes,” he said glancing over it, “she says the same thing to me. She feels she wants a change, so she’s shut up the house for a time, and she’ll stay in Paris possibly on her way elsewhere. That’s all she tells me.”
“The old lady must have left her some money,” observed François, still apparently engrossed with his background. “Looks as though it’s rather more than enough to keep body and soul together, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, do shut up, and leave that damned picture alone, and be sympathetic!” exclaimed René, irritably.