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To the astonishment of Villiers-le-Bel, Madame Valerie Côt became Madame Théophile Mineur; on the day of the wedding little Berenice named after a particularly uncanny heroine of Poe's by his relentless French admirer scratched the long features of her stepfather.
They passed out to the balcony where their coffee was served, and when he lighted his cigarette, Madame Mineur begged to be excused. She had promised Cousin Éloise to pay some calls. He strolled over the lawn, watching the hummocks of white clouds which piled up in architectural masses across the southern sky. Then he remembered the portrait and mounted to the atelier.
"Mamma was wondering if you would visit us to-night, Monsieur Falcroft, when I saw you staring at us as if we were ghosts." A burst of malicious laughter followed. "Berenice, Berenice," remonstrated her mother, "when will you cease such tasteless remarks!" She blushed in her pretty matronly fashion and put her hand on her daughter's mouth. "Don't mind her, Madame Mineur!
John: to show them that, with all their airs, I could get married as well as they. M. de Bassompierre was at first in a strange fume with Alfred; he threatened a prosecution for 'detournement de mineur, and I know not what; he was so abominably in earnest, that I found myself forced to do a little bit of the melodramatic go down on my knees, sob, cry, drench three pocket-handkerchiefs.
His works abound in references to his beloved art, and when he was writing "Massimilla Doni" he employed a professional musician to instruct him about it. Beethoven, in particular, he speaks of with the utmost enthusiasm, and after hearing his "Symphony in Ut mineur," he says that the great musician is the only person who makes him feel jealous, and that he prefers him even to Rossini and Mozart.
The night Hubert Falcroft called at Chalfontaine Mademoiselle Élise Evergonde told him that her cousin, Madame Mineur, and Berenice had gone in the direction of the pool. He had walked over from the station, preferring the open air to the stuffy train. So a few vigorous steps brought to his view mother and daughter as they slowly moved, encircling each other's waist.
Berenice wandered down the road and Hubert helped her mother to the wall, where he sat beside her and looked at her. He was a big, muscular man with shaven cheeks, dark eyes, and plenty of tumbled hair, in which flecks of gray were showing. He had been a classmate of Théophile Mineur, for whose talents or personality he had never betrayed much liking.
Hubert's brain was in a fog. "Berenice!" said he. "Yes Berenice. Why not? She loves you." "Then you Madame Mineur " stammered Hubert. The Frenchman placed his finger on his nose and slyly whispered: "Don't be afraid! I'll not tell my wife that I caught Berenice with you alone in the park you Don Juan! Now to the portrait I must see that masterpiece of yours. Berenice wrote me about it."
His arm embraced her so that she could not escape, as this middle-aged man told his passion with the ardour of an enamoured youth. "You dare not tell me you do not care for me! Elaine let us reason. I loved you since the first moment I met you. It is folly to talk of Mineur and my friendship for him. I dislike, I despise him. It is folly to talk of Berenice and her childish pranks.
"I remember no one but you," he impatiently answered; and relaxing his hold, he moved so that the moonlight shone on her face. She was pale. In her eyes there were fright and hope, decision and delight. He admired her more than ever. "Let me paint you, Elaine, these next few weeks. It will be a surprise for Mineur. And I shall have something to cherish. Never mind about Berenice. She is a child.
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