“Tell her I cannot see her.”
“But, monsieur, she resembles precisely her photographs in ‘Excelsior’——”
“I don’t care whose photographs she resembles——” But he stopped short, for he heard the footsteps of the Belletaille herself running up the stairs.
Ventrillon leaped from his bed, and in his bare legs and shirt flung himself against the door.
“Open your door to me!” cried the ecstatic voice of the Belletaille. “Have you seen the morning papers? You cannot refuse me the pleasure of grasping your hand! The name of that Fanny Max does not appear. There was no room for it. She had not even the distinction of being among those present.”
“But, mademoiselle,” protested Ventrillon, “I cannot see you.”
“Tout Paris is wild with the news,” the Belletaille rushed on; “even your head-size appears in the papers. It was a clever idea of me to destroy that portrait, was it not? Even as I plunged it into my own likeness, I felt that I plunged my little knife into the heart of that creature. But you have surpassed me. It was a stroke of genius. And what an advertisement for my American tour! I must kiss you on both your cheeks——”
“But, mademoiselle,” cried Ventrillon, in agony. “I am not dressed. Would you have me receive you in my shirt?”
“Then open your door a little way. All the world will want to know you now; but can you not come to me this afternoon? We must begin another portrait. Open it only a little way! Permit me to give you the present I have brought you.”
Ventrillon allowed her to intrude a large bandbox through the gap of the partly opened door. When she had gone, he examined it, gingerly; he wondered if she had handed him an infernal machine. He had heard of such things, and could not trust her honeyed words.