“Simple people; quite a comedy,” Erard observed. “Shall we walk up the Champs Elysées? This sunset will be splendid from the arch.”
She walked on in silence at his side for some minutes. The little Paris world was out to enjoy the good moments of November sunlight, gaily forgetful of all the shivering it had endured since the last public appearance of the sun. At the great brasseries along the boulevards men and women were seated before their untasted bock or café, luxuriating in the popular street theatre that could be had for a few sous. Some men with silk hats pushed back on their heads were scribbling letters or journalistic copy, in the casual fashion of Parisian life. There were other little groups of twos, a man and a woman, one of the two generally talking earnestly, while the other listened dumbly. In a way Mrs. Wilbur felt that she and Simeon Erard ought to be seated at such a table, bound together as they were by some kind of a tie. Perhaps the time would come when she should be besieging him over a bock on the boulevard, in low, concentrated words.
“Why did you omit to tell me who was to be at the dealer’s?” she said at last, her resentment having cooled.
“It didn’t occur to me,” Erard replied with assurance, “and if it had, I shouldn’t have considered it a matter of enough importance to mention. It was an affair of business for me, an affair of interest and instruction for you. Not a social matter, it seems to me.”
He gave no more attention to her ruffled feelings, and began to talk about what was being done at the studios; the movements in impressionism since her last visit in Paris; the last two salons and the Glasgow school; a new dealer in Dutch and Belgian pictures. He talked well, too glibly in fact, as if he had got into the habit of talking and writing for publication. His conversation, however, was well calculated to soothe any irritability that might be left. She was so eagerly interested in the new ventures in art, that she could not harbour personal pique, especially against the man who roused her mind.
They came out on the Place de la Concorde, which was brilliant in the last light from the west. To Mrs. Wilbur this spot was always an inspiriting sight. As they turned into the broad avenue, where the rush of carriages, the labouring omnibuses slowly toiling up the slippery ascent, filled the vast roadway with life, the human side of Paris burst upon her. It was also a stupendous human machine like Chicago, but somehow vital and vitalizing. It was not grotesque. Once again she was in the current she desired for herself, a current of thoughts, emotions, and theories where the world’s ideal imagery was the essential interest.
Yet something was different in her at the end of this day from the beginning. She was not so sure of herself, so clearly removed from the entangling passions of humanity. She should have been capable of a more lasting resentment. Erard was training her in toleration too fast, and she shrunk from the logical conclusions of the course she had somehow committed herself to. He was not quite master yet. This suspicion of coming degradation, of gradual lapse from her haughty self, troubled her momentarily, and rendered her silent and depressed.
Erard wisely left Mrs. Wilbur to herself for the rest of the week. They had arranged to make the Orleans excursion on the following Sunday. On that expedition a series of petty accidents delayed them until by the time they reached the chateau the sun was already behind the forest-trees. The chateau was full of interesting bric-à-brac, which detained them until the fading light necessitated an immediate examination of the drawings they had come to see. The three yellow sheets were laid reverently upon a green-baize table by the custodian, who hovered near, suspicious of Erard’s irreverent familiarity with the sacred bits of paper.
Erard looked at them hastily, then squatting his elbows on the table, examined each one with a glass, line by line, and lastly, holding the drawing to the light noted the signature. “Impudent forgeries,” he muttered at last. Mrs. Wilbur glanced at the faded drawings blankly. “They are called Leonardo, and some one has copied his signature pretty accurately. I didn’t believe they could be authentic, but I supposed they were of the school at least. See here,” he said, instructing his companion, “you can tell by the fingers—they are roughly finished or rather entirely unfinished. The next time you are in the Louvre, look at his drawings, and see how exquisitely each finger is done. That is enough to show they aren’t authentic. But if you want more confirmation, look at the ears—”
Mrs. Wilbur studied the drawings attentively, at a loss to see the deep significance of Erard’s rapid remarks. At last Erard threw down the sheets carelessly, and handing the custodian his fee, sauntered towards the entrance. When they reached the gardens he observed casually, “There’s a gate here somewhere, worth seeing, Moorish they call it.”