A Start in Life [45]
wore, also, a superb bonnet of Leghorn straw, trimmed
with a bunch of moss roses from Nattier's, beneath the spreading sides
of which rippled the curls of her beautiful blond hair.
After ordering a very choice dinner and reviewing the condition of her
rooms, she walked about the grounds, so as to be seen standing near a
flower-bed in the court-yard of the chateau, like the mistress of the
house, on the arrival of the coach from Paris. She held above her head
a charming rose-colored parasol lined with white silk and fringed.
Seeing that Pierrotin merely left Mistigris's queer packages with the
concierge, having, apparently, brought no passengers, Estelle retired
disappointed and regretting the trouble of making her useless toilet.
Like many persons who are dressed in their best, she felt incapable of
any other occupation than that of sitting idly in her salon awaiting
the coach from Beaumont, which usually passed about an hour after that
of Pierrotin, though it did not leave Paris till mid-day. She was,
therefore, in her own apartment when the two artists walked up to the
chateau, and were sent by Moreau himself to their rooms where they
made their regulation toilet for dinner. The pair had asked questions
of their guide, the gardener, who told them so much of Moreau's beauty
that they felt the necessity of "rigging themselves up" (studio
slang). They, therefore, put on their most superlative suits and then
walked over to the steward's lodge, piloted by Jacques Moreau, the
eldest son, a hardy youth, dressed like an English boy in a handsome
jacket with a turned-over collar, who was spending his vacation like a
fish in water on the estate where his father and mother reigned as
aristocrats.
"Mamma," he said, "here are the two artists sent down by Monsieur
Schinner."
Madame Moreau, agreeably surprised, rose, told her son to place
chairs, and began to display her graces.
"Mamma, the Husson boy is with papa," added the lad; "shall I fetch
him?"
"You need not hurry; go and play with him," said his mother.
The remark "you need not hurry" proved to the two artists the
unimportance of their late travelling companion in the eyes of their
hostess; but it also showed, what they did not know, the feeling of a
step-mother against a step-son. Madame Moreau, after seventeen years
of married life, could not be ignorant of the steward's attachment to
Madame Clapart and the little Husson, and she hated both mother and
child so vehemently that it is not surprising that Moreau had never
before risked bringing Oscar to Presles.
"We are requested, my husband and myself," she said to the two
artists, "to do you the honors of the chateau. We both love art, and,
above all, artists," she added in a mincing tone; "and I beg you to
make yourselves at home here. In the country, you know, every one
should be at their ease; one must feel wholly at liberty, or life is
TOO insipid. We have already had Monsieur Schinner with us."
Mistigris gave a sly glance at his companion.
"You know him, of course?" continued Estelle, after a slight pause.
"Who does not know him, madame?" said the painter.
"Knows him like his double," remarked Mistigris.
"Monsieur Grindot told me your name," said Madame Moreau to the
painter. "But--"
"Joseph Bridau," he replied, wondering with what sort of woman he had
to do.
Mistigris began to rebel internally against the patronizing manner of
the steward's wife; but he waited, like Bridau, for some word which
might give him his cue; one of those words "de singe a dauphin" which
artists, cruel, born-observers of the ridiculous--the pabulum of their
pencils--seize with such avidity. Meantime Estelle's clumsy hands and
feet struck their eyes, and presently a word, or phrase or two,
betrayed her past, and quite out of keeping with the elegance of her
dress, made the two young fellows aware of their prey.
with a bunch of moss roses from Nattier's, beneath the spreading sides
of which rippled the curls of her beautiful blond hair.
After ordering a very choice dinner and reviewing the condition of her
rooms, she walked about the grounds, so as to be seen standing near a
flower-bed in the court-yard of the chateau, like the mistress of the
house, on the arrival of the coach from Paris. She held above her head
a charming rose-colored parasol lined with white silk and fringed.
Seeing that Pierrotin merely left Mistigris's queer packages with the
concierge, having, apparently, brought no passengers, Estelle retired
disappointed and regretting the trouble of making her useless toilet.
Like many persons who are dressed in their best, she felt incapable of
any other occupation than that of sitting idly in her salon awaiting
the coach from Beaumont, which usually passed about an hour after that
of Pierrotin, though it did not leave Paris till mid-day. She was,
therefore, in her own apartment when the two artists walked up to the
chateau, and were sent by Moreau himself to their rooms where they
made their regulation toilet for dinner. The pair had asked questions
of their guide, the gardener, who told them so much of Moreau's beauty
that they felt the necessity of "rigging themselves up" (studio
slang). They, therefore, put on their most superlative suits and then
walked over to the steward's lodge, piloted by Jacques Moreau, the
eldest son, a hardy youth, dressed like an English boy in a handsome
jacket with a turned-over collar, who was spending his vacation like a
fish in water on the estate where his father and mother reigned as
aristocrats.
"Mamma," he said, "here are the two artists sent down by Monsieur
Schinner."
Madame Moreau, agreeably surprised, rose, told her son to place
chairs, and began to display her graces.
"Mamma, the Husson boy is with papa," added the lad; "shall I fetch
him?"
"You need not hurry; go and play with him," said his mother.
The remark "you need not hurry" proved to the two artists the
unimportance of their late travelling companion in the eyes of their
hostess; but it also showed, what they did not know, the feeling of a
step-mother against a step-son. Madame Moreau, after seventeen years
of married life, could not be ignorant of the steward's attachment to
Madame Clapart and the little Husson, and she hated both mother and
child so vehemently that it is not surprising that Moreau had never
before risked bringing Oscar to Presles.
"We are requested, my husband and myself," she said to the two
artists, "to do you the honors of the chateau. We both love art, and,
above all, artists," she added in a mincing tone; "and I beg you to
make yourselves at home here. In the country, you know, every one
should be at their ease; one must feel wholly at liberty, or life is
TOO insipid. We have already had Monsieur Schinner with us."
Mistigris gave a sly glance at his companion.
"You know him, of course?" continued Estelle, after a slight pause.
"Who does not know him, madame?" said the painter.
"Knows him like his double," remarked Mistigris.
"Monsieur Grindot told me your name," said Madame Moreau to the
painter. "But--"
"Joseph Bridau," he replied, wondering with what sort of woman he had
to do.
Mistigris began to rebel internally against the patronizing manner of
the steward's wife; but he waited, like Bridau, for some word which
might give him his cue; one of those words "de singe a dauphin" which
artists, cruel, born-observers of the ridiculous--the pabulum of their
pencils--seize with such avidity. Meantime Estelle's clumsy hands and
feet struck their eyes, and presently a word, or phrase or two,
betrayed her past, and quite out of keeping with the elegance of her
dress, made the two young fellows aware of their prey.