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His first visit to The Hostel had confirmed her opinion, although confirmation was not needed. He had visited her twice since then; once at Chauvin's studio and once at Guilder's. She had met him on a third occasion by chance. His manner had been charming as ever but marked by a certain gravity, and as Flamby had thought, by restraint. Sense of a duty to Don alone had impelled him to see her.
For the St Lawrence, however, the first and only fruits of this enlightened policy had been Chauvin's sixteen derelicts at Tadoussac. The founding of Quebec represents private enterprise, and not an expenditure of money by Henry IV for the sake of promoting colonization. De Monts and Champlain were determined to give France a foothold in America.
For the St Lawrence, however, the first and only fruits of this enlightened policy had been Chauvin's sixteen derelicts at Tadoussac. The founding of Quebec represents private enterprise, and not an expenditure of money by Henry IV for the sake of promoting colonization. De Monts and Champlain were determined to give France a foothold in America.
Chauvin's rather tired-looking eyes lighted up with professional interest and he bent lower over the table upon which he was resting his hands. "Really! Who is she?" "Flamby Duveen. I would never trust her to anybody's care but yours, Chauvin. She is the daughter of a man who saved my life and she is a born artist as well. She starts at Guilder's on Monday. Her style wants broadening of course.
The only occupant of Chauvin's studio was a romantic-looking man wearing a very dirty smock, a man who looked like an illustration for La Vie de Bohème, so that a stranger must have mistaken him for a celebrated artist although he actually combined the duties of a concierge with those of a charwoman. He displayed no surprise when Flamby came in, wild-haired, arrayed in Paul's Burberry.
She threw her arm over her bare shoulder to hide it and shrank back against the door not daring to raise her eyes again. She was trembling violently. Beneath her downcast lashes she could see the door of Chauvin's studio, and suddenly she determined to fly there for shelter, as had been her original intention. She started but Paul held her fast. Flamby hid her face against his coat.
He had never mentioned his wife. Flamby first saw Yvonne in the cloisteresque passage into which Chauvin's studio opened, for the studio was one of a set built around three sides of a small open courtyard in the centre of which was a marble faun. Orlando James, the fashionable portrait painter, occupied the studio next to Chauvin. Flamby had been rather anxious to meet James because Chauvin had warned her to avoid him, and one afternoon as she was leaving for home, she came out into the passage at the same moment that a man and a woman passed the studio door on their way to the gate. The woman walked on without glancing aside, but the man covertly looked back, bestowing a bold glance of his large brown eyes upon Flamby. It was Orlando James. She recognised him immediately, tall, fair, arrogantly handsome and wearing his soft hat
Some sparrows were chirping up on a roof, but the sounds of the highroad were muted and dim. Paul grasped the brass handle and sought to turn it. As he did so Flamby realised that James had bolted the door. Paul stood for a moment looking at the massive oak and then turned away, rejoining Flamby. "Come along to Chauvin's," he said. "I will get a cab for you."
They made a beautiful picture of excited and alarmed curiosity. Several times they advanced, and then fell back. Finally they whirled away and headed up stream. In a few minutes I heard the report of Chauvin's rifle, followed a little later by another shot. Then the whole band appeared in wild disorder, running as only frightened antelopes can run, in the direction from which they came.
Flamby sprang across the studio, wrenched open the door and ran out banging it behind her. As it closed she fell back against it, panting and saw Paul Mario approaching from the direction of Chauvin's. In the glance which Paul gave Flamby there was something odic and strange. He experienced a consciousness of giving and a consciousness of loss. Flamby was aware of intense shame and mad joy.
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