“That’s a trifle too rustic for a man who does not go outside of Paris three times a year. And my daughter you drew in profile—a good likeness, I believe.”
“It was as like as I could make it.”
“Then you confess that you drew both my daughter and myself?”
“Yes, I do, Monsieur.”
“It may not be so easy for you to explain by what right you did so; I await your explanation, Monsieur.”
“I might very well give you no explanation whatever,” replied Lampron, who was beginning to lose patience. “I might also reply that I no more needed to ask your permission to sketch you than to ask that of the beeches, oaks, elms, and willows. I might tell you that you formed part of the landscape, that every artist who sketches a bit of underwood has the right to stick a figure in—”
“A figure, Monsieur! do you call me a figure?”
“A gentleman, I mean. Artists call it figure. Well, I might give you this reason, which is quite good enough for you, but it is not the real one. I prefer to tell you frankly what passed. You have a very beautiful daughter, Monsieur.”
M. Charnot made his customary bow.
“One of my friends is in love with her. He is shy, and dares not tell his love. We met you by chance in the wood, and I was seized with the idea of making a sketch of Mademoiselle Jeanne, so like that she could not mistake it, and then exhibiting it with the certainty of her seeing it and guessing its meaning. I trusted she would recall to her mind, not myself, for my youth is past, but a young friend of mine who is of the age and build of a lover. If this was a crime, Monsieur, I am ready to take the blame for it upon myself, for I alone committed it.”