In the aesthetic circle of which he was so brilliant an ornament, and where the scandal was soon the topic of passing conversation, Gavrolles assumed an aspect of lofty indignation, and affected to deplore the public taste which could find pleasure in journalism so brutale. Pressed by his intimates for an explanation of the innuendoes, he would smile sadly, pass his thin fingers through his hair, and profess his determination to ‘compromise no one.’ There were subjects, he said, in which a woman’s honour was concerned, and which he could not discuss; there were secrets which it was a man’s duty to lock firmly in his breast, lest the happiness of another should suffer—ah, yes! And the lean young gentlemen and limp young ladies looked at their plaster of Paris idol with increased adoration.
About this time, it should be noted, Gavrolles was sincerely inspired by the Divine Muse. He wrote a great many verses, which he would read aloud to himself, with much gesticulation, in the privacy of his lodging. Sometimes he even entertained his aesthetic admirers with a selection from these splendid inspirations. Ponto was spellbound, sent a little article to the ‘Megatherium’ as a sort of puff preliminary, expressing a hope that these new ‘adumbrations of an august poesy’ would soon be published in post octavo, on rough paper with blunt type, like the divine ‘Parfums de la Chair.’ As a specimen of the new work (which, he took occasion to say, posterity would remember when Racine, Molière, and Lamartine were all forgotten, and only Gautier, Baudelaire, and Gavrolles remembered) he quoted at full length the priceless pearl of loveliness, the ‘ballade’ entitled ‘Diane: Chute d’un Ange.’
One morning, as this great cosmic creature was sipping his coffee and turning over the leaves of a new book by Zola (not without much superfine disgust, for he held that eccentric writer in very genuine dislike), a gentleman was announced, and before Gavrolles could utter a word the gentleman entered. One glance at his face sufficed. The Frenchman had seen it already once or twice before, and hated it cordially.
‘My name is Sutherland,’ said the new comer, quietly closing the door behind him. ‘Possibly you remember me?’
Gavrolles rose smiling, though his cheek was a little pale, his mouth a little venomous. ‘Ah! yes,’ he remembered well Monsieur Sutherland, who had been introduced to him by that ‘drôle’ of a Crieff. He was delighted to make his acquaintance. If he could serve him in any way, he would be enraptured.
‘Your rapture will diminish, perhaps,’ said Sutherland, paying no attention to the hand which waved him to a chair, ‘when I tell you what brings me here.’
‘Indeed!’ exclaimed Gavrolles, rather nervously, for his visitor’s manner was not encouraging.
‘You have alluded to our second meeting. Pray do you remember our first?’
‘Our first, Monsieur?’
He did remember, only too well for his mental comfort, and even as he spoke the dreary salle à manger in the little French town arose before him, and he faced again the powerful figure with the stern eyes and the firm square jaw.