“Many happy returns? Ah, yes, my poor mother wished me that this morning; then I set to work and forgot all about it. I am glad you came. She would feel hurt, dear soul, if I forgot to pass a bit of this evening with her. Let us go and find her.”
“With all my heart, Sylvestre, but I, too, have forgotten something.”
“What?”
“I have brought no flowers.”
“Never mind, she has plenty; strong-scented flowers of the south, a whole basketful, enough to keep a hive of bees or kill a man in his sleep, which you will. It is a yearly attention from an unhappy creditor.”
“Debtor, you mean.”
“I mean what I say—a creditor.”
He lifted the lamp. The shadows shifted and ran along the walls like huge spiders, the crossed swords flashed, the Venus of Milo threw us a lofty glance, Polyhymnia stood forth pensive and sank back into shadow. At the door I took the draped lay figure in my arms. “Excuse me,” I said as I moved it—and we left the studio for Madame Lampron’s little sitting-room.
She was seated near a small round table, knitting socks, her feet on a hot-water bottle. Her kind old rough and wrinkled face beamed upon us. She thrust her needles under the black lace cap she always wore, and drew them out again almost immediately.
“It needed your presence, Monsieur Mouillard,” said she, “to drag him from his work.”