Meanwhile Sylvestre had been talking to Plumet at the other end of the room.
“Out of the question,” said the frame-maker; “we are up to our knees in arrears; twenty orders waiting.”
“I ask you to oblige me as a friend.”
“I wish I could oblige you, Monsieur Lampron; but if I made you a promise, I should not be able to keep it.”
“What a pity! All was so well arranged, too. The sketch was to have been hung with my two engravings. Poor Fabien! I was saving up a surprise for you. Come and look here.”
I went across. Sylvestre opened his portfolio.
“Do you recognize it?”
At once I recognized them. M. Charnot’s back; Jeanne’s profile, exactly like her; a forest nook; the parasol on the ground; the cane stuck into the grass; a bit of genre, perfect in truth and execution.
“When did you do that?”
“Last night.”