On this occasion she once more wore a walking-dress, for, having attended a marriage ceremony in the morning, she had kept on the rather smart mauve gown in which her shapely figure, elegant shoulders, and slim waist were so well set off. Thus attired, and lounging back in a low arm-chair—an attitude that marked the adorable outlines of her body—she begged the poet, after the usual commonplaces had passed, to commence his reading. She listened to his poetry without betraying any surprise at the peculiar drawl with which even the best scholars intone their verses, her great intelligent eyes and the repose of her face seeming to indicate the closest attention. At rare intervals she would venture upon some apparently involuntary exclamation, such as: 'How beautiful that is!' or, 'Will you repeat those lines?—I like them so much!'
In reality, she cared little for the poet's verses, and understood them less. To comprehend even superficially the work of a modern artist—in whom there is always a critic and a scholar—requires such mental development as is only met with in a small number of Society women, sufficiently interested in culture to read much and to think more in the midst of a life entirely opposed to all kind of study and reflection. What made Suzanne's pretty face and big blue eyes look so pensive was the desire not to let the important word slip by upon which to hang her project. But line came after line, stanzas succeeded sonnets, and yet she had not been able to seize upon anything which could reasonably be made to give the conversation the turn she wanted. What a pity it was! For René's eyes, that continually wandered from the page; his voice, that shook occasionally as he read; his hands, that trembled as he turned the leaves—all showed that her pretended admiration had completely intoxicated the Trissotin that lurks in every author.
And now there was only one piece left! This the poet had purposely kept to the last; it was his favourite, and bore a title which was a revelation to Suzanne, 'The Eyes of the Gioconda.' It was rather a long poem, half metaphysical, half descriptive, in which the writer had striven to collect and reproduce in sonorous verse all the opinions of the modern school of critics concerning Leonardo da Vinci's masterpiece. In this portrait of an Italian woman we ought, perhaps, to see nothing beyond a study of the purest and most technical naturalism, one of those struggles against conventionality in art in which the great painter appears to have been so frequently engaged. Can it not have been an attempt of the master to seize the unseizable—the play of a face, and to paint the fleeting expression on the lips as they pass from repose to a smile? In his poem René, who took a childish pride in the fact that his family name resembled that of the village which lends its appellation to the most subtle master of the Renaissance, had condensed into thirty verses an entire system of natural and historical philosophy. He valued this symbolical medley higher than the 'Sigisbée,' which contained only what was natural and appertaining to the passions—two qualities fit only for the vulgar herd.
What then was his delight to hear Madame Moraines say, 'If I might be allowed to express any preference, I would say that this is the piece which pleases me most. How well you understand true art! To see the great masterpieces with you must be a revelation! I am sure that if I visited the Louvre under your guidance you would explain to me so much that I see in the pictures but cannot understand. I have often wandered about there, but quite alone!'
She waited. As soon as René had started reading this last poem she had said to herself, 'How foolish of me not to have thought of that before!' closing her eyes for a moment as if to retain some beautiful dream. At the finish she had purposely used such words as would give him an opportunity of seeing her again. He would propose a visit together to the Louvre, to which she would accede, after having cleverly raised just sufficient difficulties. She saw the suggestion trembling on his lips, but he had not the courage to make it. She was therefore compelled to do so herself.
'If I were not afraid of wasting your time——?' Then, with a sigh, 'But we have not been acquainted long enough.'
'Oh; madame!' cried René, 'it seems to me as if I had been your friend for years!'
'That is because you feel I am sincere in what I say,' she replied, with a frank and open smile. 'And I am going to prove it to you once more. Will you show me the Louvre one day next week?'