Several times, as he was returning home, the young artist had met the little dressmaker going to her work; and he had been impressed by her beauty. Knowing that she was his neighbor, he had tried to form an acquaintance with her, and had proposed to paint her portrait, if she would be his model for a study which he intended to exhibit at the Salon. But Elina had declined his offers, and had always refused to enter the painter's studio. And yet, it is a very pleasant thing to have one's own portrait. How many women and girls allow themselves to be allured by such an offer, by the desire to see their faces at the Salon, and to have an opportunity to listen to the compliments certain to be lavished upon them. What joy to say to their companions in the workroom: "My portrait is at the Salon; I represent an Italian peasant—a Swiss peasant—and a wood nymph. The painter insisted on putting my face in all his pictures."—Elina, too, had been tempted; but she had resisted the temptation. To be sure, Balivan was very ugly.
The artist's studio was lighted by a lamp placed on the stove; its rays fell upon a full-length portrait of a very pretty woman in a ball dress, and upon the head of an old soldier, whose nose was not finished; scattered here and there, on the floor, or hung on the walls, were various canvases, in all stages of completion, from the merest sketch to the finished portrait. Some plaster busts, easels, a manikin in female dress, sketches, and several portraits refused admission to the Salon, or by the persons for whom they were painted, and relegated by the artist to the darkest corners of the studio, combined to give a unique aspect to the apartment.
Four young men, seated around a table in the middle of the room, were enjoying with great zest the pleasures of bouillotte. On a small table, close at hand, stood an enormous salad bowl filled with blazing punch; and glasses, pipes, cigars, tobacco pouches, and even snuffboxes, were scattered over another small table of Chinese lacquer, which had momentarily deserted the artist's salon to embellish his studio.
When Tobie appeared, the card table was occupied by Albert, Célestin, Mouillot, and a young man, who was not of the dinner party at the Maison-Dorée, but had joined the band of roisterers when they left the restaurant, and had asked for nothing better than to pass the night with them at bouillotte.
This young man, who was the possessor of an insignificant and utterly expressionless face, had hair so light that it was almost white, and eyebrows of the same color, which gave him some resemblance to an albino; still, in spite of that, he might have been considered a good-looking fellow enough, if his manner had been less indolent; but he had about twelve thousand francs a year, which his family permitted him to consume in Paris; the result being that in society, and especially among the high livers, Monsieur Varinet's company was much sought after. Not that he was amiable and jovial in society: he was always cold and impassive, and not even wine had the power to enliven him; but he spent his money with the same indifference which he displayed in every other action of his life; and he would lose large sums at cards without any sign of emotion. All his friends esteemed him highly on that account.
Gold and silver were scattered over the table, and the animated air of the players indicated that the game was beginning to be warm.
Balivan himself was filling the glasses with punch, and Dupétrain sat in front of the manikin dressed as a woman, which he seemed to be scrutinizing with care.
"Ah! here's Tobie! Vive Tobie!" cried the artist, as Pigeonnier entered the room. And, despite their absorbing interest in the game, the card players joined in the cry:
"Here's Tobie! Here's that Don Juan of a Tobie!"
The young man with white eyebrows was the only one who said nothing; he contented himself with saluting the new-comer, as one salutes a person with whom he is but slightly acquainted.