They stopped before a very long, low house, the first story of which looked like a very long conservatory and was divided into six studies all in a row, which faced the Boulevard.
Romantin led the way upstairs, opened a door, struck a match, and then lighted a candle. They were in a huge room with no furniture except three chairs, two easels, and a few sketches on the floor against the walls. Monsieur Saval, speechless with surprise, remained standing at the door. The painter said: “You see there’s plenty of room, but there’s a lot to be done yet.” Then, examining the bare, lofty room with its ceiling lost in gloom, he continued: “The studio has great possibilities,” and wandered about looking round with a sharp eye and said: “My little woman might have been useful. You can’t beat a woman at arranging draperies! But I sent her to the country today to get rid of her for the evening. It’s not that she worries me, but she has no manners, which is a bore for one’s guests.” He thought the matter over for a second or two, and added: “She’s a good girl, but not easy to get on with. If she knew I was having a party, she would scratch my eyes out.”
Monsieur Saval had not stirred a step; he failed to understand what it was all about. The artist went up to him. “As I have invited you, you will help me, of course”; and the notary replied: “Of course I will: I am entirely at your disposal.”
Romantin took off his jacket. “Well, friend, let’s make a start. First, we must clean the place.” He went behind the easel on which stood a painting of a cat, and produced a very dilapidated broom. “Here you are, sweep up while I attend to the lighting.” Monsieur Saval took the broom, looked at it, and began to sweep the floor awkwardly, raising a cloud of dust. Romantin, very indignant, stopped him: “Heavens above, don’t you know how to sweep? Now, watch me,” and he began to push the heap of greyish dirt along the floor as if he had done nothing else all his life; then he handed the broom back to the notary, who tried to imitate him. In five minutes there was such a cloud of dust in the studio that Romantin called out: “Where are you? I can’t see you.” Monsieur Saval came up to him, coughing, and the painter asked: “How would you set about to make a chandelier?” Quite bewildered, the notary echoed: “A chandelier?” “Yes, a chandelier to light the room, a chandelier to hold candles.” The guest, still completely at sea, replied: “I don’t know,” and the painter, skipping about and snapping his finger like castanets, continued: “Well, my lord, I have had an inspiration,” and then, more soberly: “Do you happen to have five francs on you?” “Certainly.” “Well, then, go and buy five francs’ worth of candles while I go to the cooper’s.” And he pushed the notary into the street in his evening dress. Five minutes later they had returned, the one with his candles and the other with a hoop off a barrel. Romantin dived into a cupboard and brought out twenty empty bottles, which he fastened all round the hoop, then he went downstairs to borrow the steps from the concierge, after explaining that he had won the old lady’s heart by painting her cat, which was on the easel. When he had brought the steps he said to Monsieur Saval: “Are you nimble?” “Why, yes,” replied the notary, innocently. “Then you can go up the steps and fasten the chandelier to the ring in the ceiling; after that you can put candles into all the bottles, and light them. I tell you I have a genius for illumination. But for heaven’s sake, take off your coat, you look like a flunkey.”
The door was flung violently open and a woman blazing with fury stood on the threshold. Romantin looked at her with horror in his eyes. She waited a second or two with folded arms, and then in a shrill voice, full of exasperation, shouted: “Oh, you dirty dog, that’s how you treat me!” Romantin made no reply and she continued: “Oh, you beast. You pretended to be kindness itself in sending me into the country. I’ll show you the kind of party you are going to have. Yes. I’ll receive your guests for you …”; and working herself up: “I’ll fling your candles and your bottles in their faces. …”
Romantin said gently: “Matilda, Matilda,” but she wouldn’t listen, and went on: “Wait a bit, my beauty, wait a bit!” Then Romantin went up to her and tried to get hold of her hands: “Matilda.” But she was fairly launched now; she ran on and on pouring forth a whole volume of abuse, a mountain of reproaches; the words streamed from her lips like a torrent of filth, getting entangled in the struggle for supremacy. She stammered, she stuttered, she jeered, gasped, and then suddenly started again with further insults, fresh oaths. He had seized her hands without attracting her notice, she was so determined to have her say, to relieve her feelings, that she did not even know he was there. At last she began to cry, and tears poured down her cheeks without interrupting her flow of grievances, but her voice grew shrill and strained and very tearful, until it was broken by sobs. She made one or two fresh starts but was choked into silence and collapsed in a flood of tears. Touched by her distress, he clasped her in his arms and kissed her hair.
“Matilda, my own dear Matilda, listen to me. Be sensible. If I am giving a party, you know it is only to thank these painters for my Salon Medal. I cannot invite women. You ought to be able to understand that. Artists are not like everyday people.”
She sobbed out: “Why didn’t
