He showed me a tender fillette in a state of nature, trying to avoid tripping over a tame lamb as she scattered abroad an armful of flowers.
“Stunning!” I said. “So original! Let’s go down and interview the mother.”
Into his brown eyes came a look of distress. “I’m a bit awkward with women, you know. Would you mind doing the talking?”
“Right O! Follow me.”
So we descended the narrow, crumbling stairs, from each stage of which came a smell of cookery. Thus we passed through a stratum of ham and eggs, another of corned beef and cabbage, a third of beefsteak and onions, down to the fried fish stratum of the entresol.
Frosine was in the midst of dinner. The Môme regarded us over a spoonful of milk soup, and as he wiped the perspiration from his brow, Helstern looked at her almost devouringly. But in the presence of Frosine he seemed almost tongue-tied. To me, who have never known what shyness was, it seemed pitiable. However I explained our mission, and even showed the sketch at a flattering angle. Frosine listened politely, seemed to want to laugh, then turned to the sculptor with that frank, kindly smile that seemed to radiate good fellowship.
“You do me too great honour, Monsieur. I am sure your work would be very beautiful. But alas! Solonge is very shy and very modest. One could never get her to pose for the figure. I am sorry, but believe me, the thing is impossible.”
“Thank you, Madam. I am sorry too,” he said humbly. He stumped away crestfallen, and with a final, sorrowful look at the Môme.
Anastasia was keeping supper hot for me. “Poor Helstern,” I remarked over my second chop, “I’m afraid he’ll have to look out for another vernal infant. But talking of Spring reminds me, time is passing, and we’re not getting any richer. How’s the family treasury?”
An examination of the tea-canister that contained our capital revealed the sum of twenty-seven francs. I looked at it ruefully.