Animation returned once more to the party. Erard led them from the studio—a fine old room, with open-timbered ceiling, left almost ostentatiously bare—into the adjoining salon. In the sombre studio there had been only the warm woodwork; here were many living qualities,—the lofty windows hung with dark stuffs, the fireplace adorned by a delicate relief of nymphs. In one corner was a spinet, and along the sides of the room couches, with a few low tables and aristocratic chairs. Some little bronzes, one or two pastels, and a cast of a group by a young American sculptor, completed the obvious contents.
The ladies exclaimed. Wilbur observed thoughtfully, “I should think you would rattle around a little.”
“Ah! I don’t live here,” Erard answered airily, pushing open the large folding doors beside the fireplace. “This is my den, and beyond are the bedrooms.”
The inner room was of the same dignified height as the rest of the apartment. A bit of tapestry on one side, and shelves for books and photographs on another, hid the walls. In one corner was a simple ormolu table, where notes lay half opened, and beside it a lounge. A few high-backed chairs, each one a precious find, were ranged like solemn lackeys along the walls. A second piece of tapestry cut off a dimly lighted alcove, where a bed of state could be seen,—“also of the period,” as Erard remarked complacently. The visitors were still admiring when the servant opened the door into the dining salon.
“We will have some punch,” Erard sighed, throwing himself into the deep chair at the head of the table, in which his small figure seemed engulfed. While Pierre, like an attentive mouse, passed the punch and cakes, the Americans let their eyes roam over the room. It was sombre with heavy furniture, but scrupulously confined to “the period,” from the few plates that looked down from the lofty sideboard, to the andirons on the hearth.
“An ideal nest,” Miss Anthon murmured.
“Your man makes such good punch,” Mrs. Anthon added.
“You must have put a mine into this,” Wilbur commented, as he sipped his punch. “Fixed it up for a permanent residence?”
“Ah! I can’t say,” the artist replied negligently. “Paris bores me a good deal. I do my best work at Giverney or San Geminiano. This is a kind of office.”
“Not much like the old garret where genius was once supposed to blossom,” Sebastian Anthon reflected in his weary voice, as if making propositions for himself.