"Certainly."
"And will you sign your name to it?"
Bishop cheerfully complied. Then she took it, kissed it, and pressed it to her bosom; and then, leaning forward, and speaking with a richness and depth of voice that she had not betrayed before, and in the deepest earnestness, said,—"Je vous aime!"
Bishop, staggered by this forthright declaration of affection, blushed violently and looked very foolish. But he rallied and assured her that her love was reciprocated, for who, he asked, could resist so beautiful a face, so warm a heart? If he had only known, if I could only have told him! The girl sank back in her chair with a quizzical, doubting smile that showed perfect white teeth and changed to bright dimples the suggestion of a smile that fluttered at her mouth-corners. She carefully folded the sketch and daintily tucked it away in her bosom.
Bishop had now quitted work,—Hélène had seen to that. She had moved her chair close to his, and, looking him straight in the eyes, was rattling away in the untranslatable argot of Montmartre. It is not the argot of the slums, nor that of the thieves, nor that of the students, but that of Montmartre; and there are no ways of expressing it intelligibly in English. Presently she became more serious, and with all the coaxing and pleading of which her ardent, impetuous nature was capable, she begged,— "Let me be your model. Je suis bien faite, and you can teach me to pose. You will be kind to me. I have a good figure. I will do everything, everything for you! I will take care of the studio. I will cook, I will bring you everything, everything you want. You will let me live with you. I will love no one else. You will never be sorry nor ashamed. If you will only——" That is the best translation I can give; it is certainly what she meant, though it indicates nothing of the impetuosity, the abandon, the eagerness, the warmth, the savage beauty that shone from her as she spoke.
Bishop rose to the occasion. He sprang to his feet. "I must dance after that!" he exclaimed, catching her up, laughing, and dragging her upon the floor. He could dance superbly. A waltz was being played, and it was being danced in the stiff and stupid way of the people. Very soon Bishop and Hélène began to attract general attention, for never before had Montmartre seen a waltz danced like that. He reversed, and glided, and threw into the queen of dances all the grace and freedom that it demands. At first Hélène was puzzled and bewildered; but she was agile both of mind and body, and under Bishop's sure guidance she put them to excellent use. Rapidly she caught the grace and spirit of the waltz, and danced with a verve that she had never known before. Swiftly and gracefully they skimmed the length of the great hall, then back, and wherever they went the dancers watched them with astonishment and delight, and gradually abandoned their own ungraceful efforts, partly in shame, partly in admiration, and partly with a desire to learn how the miracle was done. Gradually the floor was wholly abandoned except for these two, and all eyes watched them. Hélène was happy and radiant beyond all ways of telling. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled, her lithe figure developed all the ease, grace, and suppleness of a cat.
Some muttered expressions of contempt spoken near me caused me to listen without turning round. They were meant for my ears, but I gave no heed. I knew well enough from whom they came,—Crespin and his friends. And I realized that we were in for it. True, there were the big guards and there was the capable bouncer, and they would glance my way now and then, seemingly to let Crespin know that all was understood and that it must be hands off with him. There was no danger here, but afterwards—The waltz came to an end, and the two were vigorously applauded. This was a critical moment, but Bishop handled it adroitly. He conducted Hélène to a seat remote from our table, bowed low, and left her, and came over to me. I told him of my fears, but he laughed. He had got rid of Hélène with perfect address, and perhaps she was nursing an angry and aching heart after her glorious triumph; perhaps Bishop had whispered to her something of the danger and suggested that they have nothing more to do with each other that evening.
