'I thought painters were principally poor,' said Stubbs.
'Ah!' cried Leon, 'you do not know the world as I do. The poorer the better for us!'
And the trio advanced into the turnip-field.
The light was in the ground floor; as one window was brightly illuminated and two others more faintly, it might be supposed that there was a single lamp in one corner of a large apartment; and a certain tremulousness and temporary dwindling showed that a live fire contributed to the effect. The sound of a voice now became audible; and the trespassers paused to listen. It was pitched in a high, angry key, but had still a good, full, and masculine note in it. The utterance was voluble, too voluble even to be quite distinct; a stream of words, rising and falling, with ever and again a phrase thrown out by itself, as if the speaker reckoned on its virtue.
Suddenly another voice joined in. This time it was a woman's; and if the man were angry, the woman was incensed to the degree of fury. There was that absolutely blank composure known to suffering males; that colourless unnatural speech which shows a spirit accurately balanced between homicide and hysterics; the tone in which the best of women sometimes utter words worse than death to those most dear to them. If Abstract Bones- and-Sepulchre were to be endowed with the gift of speech, thus, and not otherwise, would it discourse. Leon was a brave man, and I fear he was somewhat sceptically given (he had been educated in a Papistical country), but the habit of childhood prevailed, and he crossed himself devoutly. He had met several women in his career. It was obvious that his instinct had not deceived him, for the male voice broke forth instantly in a towering passion.
The undergraduate, who had not understood the significance of the woman's contribution, pricked up his ears at the change upon the man.
'There's going to be a free fight,' he opined.
There was another retort from the woman, still calm but a little higher.
'Hysterics?' asked Leon of his wife. 'Is that the stage direction?'
'How should I know?' returned Elvira, somewhat tartly.
'Oh, woman, woman!' said Leon, beginning to open the guitar-case. 'It is one of the burdens of my life, Monsieur Stubbs; they support each other; they always pretend there is no system; they say it's nature. Even Madame Berthelini, who is a dramatic artist!'
'You are heartless, Leon,' said Elvira; 'that woman is in trouble.'
'And the man, my angel?' inquired Berthelini, passing the ribbon of his guitar. 'And the man, M'AMOUR?'
'He is a man,' she answered.
'You hear that?' said Leon to Stubbs. 'It is not too late for you. Mark the intonation. And now,' he continued, 'what are we to give them?'
'Are you going to sing?' asked Stubbs.
'I am a troubadour,' replied Leon. 'I claim a welcome by and for my art. If I were a banker could I do as much?'
'Well, you wouldn't need, you know,' answered the undergraduate.
'Egad,' said Leon, 'but that's true. Elvira, that is true.'
'Of course it is,' she replied. 'Did you not know it?'
'My dear,' answered Leon impressively, 'I know nothing but what is agreeable. Even my knowledge of life is a work of art superiorly composed. But what are we to give them? It should be something appropriate.'
Visions of 'Let dogs delight' passed through the undergraduate's mind; but it occurred to him that the poetry was English and that he did not know the air. Hence he contributed no suggestion.
'Something about our houselessness,' said Elvira.
'I have it,' cried Leon. And he broke forth into a song of Pierre Dupont's:-
'Savez-vous ou gite, Mai, ce joli mois?'
Elvira joined in; so did Stubbs, with a good ear and voice, but an imperfect acquaintance with the music. Leon and the guitar were equal to the situation. The actor dispensed his throat-notes with prodigality and enthusiasm; and, as he looked up to heaven in his heroic way, tossing the black ringlets, it seemed to him that the very stars contributed a dumb applause to his efforts, and the universe lent him its silence for a chorus. That is one of the best features of the heavenly bodies, that they belong to everybody in particular; and a man like Leon, a chronic Endymion who managed to get along without encouragement, is always the world's centre for himself.
He alone - and it is to be noted, he was the worst singer of the three - took the music seriously to heart, and judged the serenade from a high artistic point of view. Elvira, on the other hand, was preoccupied about their reception; and, as for Stubbs, he considered the whole affair in the light of a broad joke.
'Know you the lair of May, the lovely month?' went the three voices in the turnip-field.
The inhabitants were plainly fluttered; the light moved to and fro, strengthening in one window, paling in another; and then the door was thrown open, and a man in a blouse appeared on the threshold carrying a lamp. He was a powerful young fellow, with bewildered hair and beard, wearing his neck open; his blouse was stained with oil-colours in a harlequinesque disorder; and there was something rural in the droop and bagginess of his belted trousers.
From immediately behind him, and indeed over his shoulder, a woman's face looked out into the darkness; it was pale and a little weary, although still young; it wore a dwindling, disappearing prettiness, soon to be quite gone, and the expression was both gentle and sour, and reminded one faintly of the taste of certain drugs. For all that, it was not a face to dislike; when the prettiness had vanished, it seemed as if a certain pale beauty might step in to take its place; and as both the mildness and the asperity were characters of youth, it might be hoped that, with years, both would merge into a constant, brave, and not unkindly temper.
'What is all this?' cried the man.
CHAPTER VI
Leon had his hat in his hand at once. He came forward with his customary grace; it was a moment which would have earned him a round of cheering on the stage. Elvira and Stubbs advanced behind him, like a couple of Admetus's sheep following the god Apollo.
'Sir,' said Leon, 'the hour is unpardonably late, and our little serenade has the air of an impertinence. Believe me, sir, it is an appeal. Monsieur is an artist, I perceive. We are here three artists benighted and without shelter, one a woman - a delicate woman - in evening dress - in an interesting situation. This will not fail to touch the woman's heart of Madame, whom I perceive indistinctly behind Monsieur her husband, and whose face speaks eloquently of a well-regulated mind. Ah! Monsieur, Madame - one generous movement, and you make three people happy! Two or three hours beside your fire - I ask it of Monsieur in the name of Art - I ask it of Madame by the sanctity of womanhood.'
The two, as by a tacit consent, drew back from the door.
'Come in,' said the man.
'Entrez, Madame,' said the woman.
The door opened directly upon the kitchen of the house, which was to all appearance the only sitting-room. The furniture was both plain and scanty; but there were one or two landscapes on the wall handsomely framed, as if they had already visited the committee- rooms of an exhibition and been thence extruded. Leon walked up to the pictures and represented the part of a connoisseur before each in turn, with his usual dramatic insight and force. The master of the house, as if irresistibly attracted, followed him from canvas to canvas with the lamp. Elvira was led directly to the fire, where she proceeded to warm herself, while Stubbs stood in the middle of the floor and followed the proceedings of Leon with mild astonishment in his eyes.
'You should see them by daylight,' said the artist.
'I promise myself that pleasure,' said Leon. 'You possess, sir, if you will permit me an observation, the art of composition to a T.'
'You are very good,' returned the other. 'But should you not draw nearer to the fire?'
'With all my heart,' said Leon.
And the whole party was soon gathered at the table over a hasty and not an elegant cold supper, washed down with the least of small wines. Nobody liked the meal, but nobody complained; they put a good face upon it,
