"To tell you the truth, I do not know." He said it with an odd smile in which there was some annoyance. "I want to paint a series of pictures under the title of 'Mes Cauchemars,'--' Evil Dreams,'--and the thing in the Circolo was to be number one. If I could have dared to challenge comparison with Botticelli,--which I could not,--I should perhaps have called the picture 'Spring.'"
As he spoke, his eyes had continually strayed towards Erika: at last they rested upon her with so uncivilized a stare that she turned away, annoyed, and Count Treurenberg held up his hand as a screen, saying, with a laugh, "Spare your eyes, my dear Lozoncyi: what sort of way is that to gaze upon the sun?"
"You are right, Count," the painter said, rather bluntly; then, turning again to the young girl, he said, in a very different tone, "I am not recalling our meeting in the Calle San Giacomo. If I do not mistake,--I can hardly believe it, but if I do not,--our acquaintance dates from much farther back. Have you a step-father called Strachinsky?"
"Unfortunately, yes," her grandmother replied, dolefully.
"Well, then," he said, eagerly, "I----" He made a sudden pause. "How foolish I am! You must long ago have forgotten what I am remembering."
"No, I have forgotten nothing," Erika replied, lifting her eyes to his with a strange expression of mingled pride and reproach. "I recognized you long ago; but it was not for me to tell you so."
"Countess! Allow me to kiss your hand, in memory of the dear little fairy who brought me good fortune."
"What's all this?" Count Treurenberg asked, inquisitively, and the old Countess as curiously inquired, "Where did you make each other's acquaintance?"
Erika hesitates: a sudden shyness makes her uncertain how to begin the story. Lozoncyi comes to her aid. His narrative is a little masterpiece of pathos and humour. He tells everything; how the Baron--he describes him perfectly in a single phrase--sent him off with an alms,--two kreutzers,--his own indignation, his despair, his hunger, the sudden appearance of the little girl; he describes her sweet little face, her faded gown, her long thin legs in their red stockings, and the basket of food decorated with asters; he describes the landscape, the little brook creeping shyly beneath the huge bridge,--a bridge about as suitable, he declares, as the tomb of Cecilia Metella would be as a monument for a dead dog; he repeats the little fairy's every word, and tells how, finally, she slipped the five guilders into his pocket, assuring him that she knew how terrible it was to be without money.
The old lady and Treurenberg laugh; Erika listens eagerly and with emotion. The story lacks something. Yes, in spite of its minute details, something is missing. Is he keeping it for the conclusion, or does he think it necessary to suppress this detail altogether? Erika is indignant at such discretion. When he has finished, she says, calmly, "You have forgotten one trifling incident, Herr Lozoncyi: you set a price upon your picture of me----" She pauses, and then, coolly surveying her listeners, she goes on, "I had to promise Herr Lozoncyi to give him a kiss for my portrait."