A Start in Life [31]
Czerni-Georges and at the famous
painter Schinner, and wondered how he could transform himself into
somebody. But a youth of nineteen, kept at home all his life, and
going for two weeks only into the country, what could he be, or do, or
say? However, the Alicante had got into his head, and his vanity was
boiling in his veins; so when the famous Schinner allowed a romantic
adventure to be guessed at in which the danger seemed as great as the
pleasure, he fastened his eyes, sparkling with wrath and envy, upon
that hero.
"Yes," said the count, with a credulous air, "a man must love a woman
well to make such sacrifices."
"What sacrifices?" demanded Mistigris.
"Don't you know, my little friend, that a ceiling painted by so great
a master as yours is worth its weight in gold?" replied the count. "If
the civil list paid you, as it did, thirty thousand francs for each of
those rooms in the Louvre," he continued, addressing Schinner, "a
bourgeois,--as you call us in the studios--ought certainly to pay you
twenty thousand. Whereas, if you go to this chateau as a humble
decorator, you will not get two thousand."
"The money is not the greatest loss," said Mistigris. "The work is
sure to be a masterpiece, but he can't sign it, you know, for fear of
compromising HER."
"Ah! I'd return all my crosses to the sovereigns who gave them to me
for the devotion that youth can win," said the count.
"That's just it!" said Mistigris, "when one's young, one's loved;
plenty of love, plenty of women; but they do say: 'Where there's wife,
there's mope.'"
"What does Madame Schinner say to all this?" pursued the count; "for I
believe you married, out of love, the beautiful Adelaide de Rouville,
the protegee of old Admiral de Kergarouet; who, by the bye, obtained
for you the order for the Louvre ceilings through his nephew, the
Comte de Fontaine."
"A great painter is never married when he travels," said Mistigris.
"So that's the morality of studios, is it?" cried the count, with an
air of great simplicity.
"Is the morality of courts where you got those decorations of yours
any better?" said Schinner, recovering his self-possession, upset for
the moment by finding out how much the count knew of Schinner's life
as an artist.
"I never asked for any of my orders," said the count. "I believe I
have loyally earned them."
"'A fair yield and no flavor,'" said Mistigris.
The count was resolved not to betray himself; he assumed an air of
good-humored interest in the country, and looked up the valley of
Groslay as the coucou took the road to Saint-Brice, leaving that to
Chantilly on the right.
"Is Rome as fine as they say it is?" said Georges, addressing the
great painter.
"Rome is fine only to those who love it; a man must have a passion for
it to enjoy it. As a city, I prefer Venice,--though I just missed
being murdered there."
"Faith, yes!" cried Mistigris; "if it hadn't been for me you'd have
been gobbled up. It was that mischief-making tom-fool, Lord Byron, who
got you into the scrape. Oh! wasn't he raging, that buffoon of an
Englishman?"
"Hush!" said Schinner. "I don't want my affair with Lord Byron talked
about."
"But you must own, all the same, that you were glad enough I knew how
to box," said Mistigris.
From time to time, Pierrotin exchanged sly glances with the count,
which might have made less inexperienced persons than the five other
travellers uneasy.
"Lords, pachas, and thirty-thousand-franc ceilings!" he cried. "I seem
to be driving sovereigns. What pourboires I'll get!"
"And all the places paid for!" said Mistigris, slyly.
"It is a lucky day for me," continued Pierrotin; "for you know, Pere
Leger, about my beautiful new coach on which I have paid an advance of
two thousand francs? Well, those dogs of carriage-builders, to whom I
have to pay two thousand five hundred
painter Schinner, and wondered how he could transform himself into
somebody. But a youth of nineteen, kept at home all his life, and
going for two weeks only into the country, what could he be, or do, or
say? However, the Alicante had got into his head, and his vanity was
boiling in his veins; so when the famous Schinner allowed a romantic
adventure to be guessed at in which the danger seemed as great as the
pleasure, he fastened his eyes, sparkling with wrath and envy, upon
that hero.
"Yes," said the count, with a credulous air, "a man must love a woman
well to make such sacrifices."
"What sacrifices?" demanded Mistigris.
"Don't you know, my little friend, that a ceiling painted by so great
a master as yours is worth its weight in gold?" replied the count. "If
the civil list paid you, as it did, thirty thousand francs for each of
those rooms in the Louvre," he continued, addressing Schinner, "a
bourgeois,--as you call us in the studios--ought certainly to pay you
twenty thousand. Whereas, if you go to this chateau as a humble
decorator, you will not get two thousand."
"The money is not the greatest loss," said Mistigris. "The work is
sure to be a masterpiece, but he can't sign it, you know, for fear of
compromising HER."
"Ah! I'd return all my crosses to the sovereigns who gave them to me
for the devotion that youth can win," said the count.
"That's just it!" said Mistigris, "when one's young, one's loved;
plenty of love, plenty of women; but they do say: 'Where there's wife,
there's mope.'"
"What does Madame Schinner say to all this?" pursued the count; "for I
believe you married, out of love, the beautiful Adelaide de Rouville,
the protegee of old Admiral de Kergarouet; who, by the bye, obtained
for you the order for the Louvre ceilings through his nephew, the
Comte de Fontaine."
"A great painter is never married when he travels," said Mistigris.
"So that's the morality of studios, is it?" cried the count, with an
air of great simplicity.
"Is the morality of courts where you got those decorations of yours
any better?" said Schinner, recovering his self-possession, upset for
the moment by finding out how much the count knew of Schinner's life
as an artist.
"I never asked for any of my orders," said the count. "I believe I
have loyally earned them."
"'A fair yield and no flavor,'" said Mistigris.
The count was resolved not to betray himself; he assumed an air of
good-humored interest in the country, and looked up the valley of
Groslay as the coucou took the road to Saint-Brice, leaving that to
Chantilly on the right.
"Is Rome as fine as they say it is?" said Georges, addressing the
great painter.
"Rome is fine only to those who love it; a man must have a passion for
it to enjoy it. As a city, I prefer Venice,--though I just missed
being murdered there."
"Faith, yes!" cried Mistigris; "if it hadn't been for me you'd have
been gobbled up. It was that mischief-making tom-fool, Lord Byron, who
got you into the scrape. Oh! wasn't he raging, that buffoon of an
Englishman?"
"Hush!" said Schinner. "I don't want my affair with Lord Byron talked
about."
"But you must own, all the same, that you were glad enough I knew how
to box," said Mistigris.
From time to time, Pierrotin exchanged sly glances with the count,
which might have made less inexperienced persons than the five other
travellers uneasy.
"Lords, pachas, and thirty-thousand-franc ceilings!" he cried. "I seem
to be driving sovereigns. What pourboires I'll get!"
"And all the places paid for!" said Mistigris, slyly.
"It is a lucky day for me," continued Pierrotin; "for you know, Pere
Leger, about my beautiful new coach on which I have paid an advance of
two thousand francs? Well, those dogs of carriage-builders, to whom I
have to pay two thousand five hundred