‘No, James, not till I have thanked you for all your goodness to me. Tell me, how can I repay you?’
‘By being happy in your home.’
Good advice, and for a time at least Madeline followed it. She was happy. Her husband was a good deal away, but she had always his boy to comfort her, and upon the child she lavished all the affection of her impulsive heart. There was one thing only in the house which chilled and repelled her; it was the presence of her husband’s sister.
Madeline had not been long in the house before she found that the cold eyes of Margaret Forster watched her continually in suspicious distrust, as if trying in vain to penetrate the mystery which shrouded the young girl’s life. But this Madeline soon forgot. Why should she fear Miss Forster? The past was buried; and as yet she had no idea that the future had its hidden mystery to disclose.
CHAPTER XXVI.—THE PUPIL OF THE IMPECCABLE.
Within the charmed circle to which he was introduced by Ponto, Gavrolles was popular in the extreme. He possessed all the enthusiasm of the aesthetics, combined with an impudence and a knowledge of the world—especially of the gay world of Paris—which were exquisitely charming. He knew all the wits and poets of the Empire, and his acquaintance with scabreux literature was profound; yet he had sat at the feet of Victor Hugo, and was a Republican by profession. His own verses had been praised by the impeccable Gautier. He could talk glibly of Art for Art’s sake, of the heresy of instruction, of Villon and Bohemia, and of the Renaissance. He wore his hair long, had a willowy droop of the shoulders, and adored the culte of the lily. He had a shrill style, a shrill voice, a shrill disposition. Inspired young ladies found him charming, feeble young gentlemen paid him the homage of imitation.
On his return to London, Gavrolles took rooms in one of the bye-streets near Portland Place. They were rather high up, but he had them furnished in the best æsthetic style, with a few risky pictures and a small collection of books. ‘Come and see me,’ he would say; ‘I am only a poor artiste, but I have my books, and in these I live.’ On the whole they were not nice books—a Philistine might have even called them nasty; but many of them bore the autographs of the writers, and were priceless accordingly.
About this time the name of Gavrolles began to be a good deal talked about, as that of a young Frenchman with Communist views who had written some delightfully wicked volumes of verse. The ‘Megatherium,’ inspired by Ponto, had a good deal to say about him, classing him in the great bagnio of Art somewhere by the side of Gautier and Baudelaire; and taking occasion at the same time to express its horror of realists like Zola, who called a spade a spade, and reduced the fair features of vice to a caput mortuum.