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Updated: June 16, 2025
It had never yet, as between him and Newman, been so apposite to place on record the fact that he had not forgiven his daughter. As Newman was moving away he looked up and drew near to him, and Newman, seeing the old man had something particular to say, bent his head for an instant. "You will see it some day in the papers," murmured M. Nioche.
Newman confessed that he was disappointed; he should have expected to see M. Nioche take high ground. "High ground, my dear fellow," said Valentin, laughing; "there is no high ground for him to take. The only perceptible eminence in M. Nioche's horizon is Montmartre, which is not an edifying quarter. You can't go mountaineering in a flat country."
It's a good plan to take things easily." "I made you too many fine speeches," M. Nioche added. "I meant them at the time." "I am sure I am very glad you didn't shoot her," said Newman. "I was afraid you might have shot yourself. That is why I came to look you up." And he began to button his coat. "Neither," said M. Nioche. "You despise me, and I can't explain to you.
"In a cab!" cried M. Nioche; and he stared, in a bewildered way, as if he had seen the sun rising at midnight. "Are you the young lady's father?" said Newman. "I think she said you speak English." "Speak English yes," said the old man slowly rubbing his hands. "I will bring it in a cab." "Say something, then," cried his daughter. "Thank him a little not too much."
But the poor old man's spirit was a trifle more threadbare; it seemed to have received some hard rubs during the summer. Newman inquired with interest about Mademoiselle Noemie; and M. Nioche, at first, for answer, simply looked at him in lachrymose silence. "Don't ask me, sir," he said at last. "I sit and watch her, but I can do nothing." "Do you mean that she misconducts herself?"
"We must go home," said Mademoiselle Noemie. "This is a good day's work. Take care how you carry it!" And she began to put up her utensils. "How can I thank you?" said M. Nioche. "My English does not suffice." "I wish I spoke French as well," said Newman, good-naturedly. "Your daughter is very clever."
She knows and admires Noemie, and she told me what I have just repeated." A month elapsed without M. Nioche reappearing, and Newman, who every morning read two or three suicides in the "Figaro," began to suspect that, mortification proving stubborn, he had sought a balm for his wounded pride in the waters of the Seine.
If this strange gentleman was saying anything improper to his daughter, M. Nioche would entreat him huskily, as a particular favor, to forbear; but he would admit at the same time that he was very presumptuous to ask for particular favors. "Monsieur has bought my picture," said Mademoiselle Noemie. "When it's finished you'll carry it to him in a cab."
"Poor little one!" said M. Nioche, with a sigh; "it is almost a pity that her work is so perfect! It would be in her interest to paint less well." "But if Mademoiselle Noemie has this devotion to her art," Newman once observed, "why should you have those fears for her that you spoke of the other day?"
But they still had to count their sous very narrowly, and M. Nioche intimated with a sigh that Mademoiselle Noemie did not bring to this task that zealous cooperation which might have been desired. "But what will you have?" he asked, philosophically. "One is young, one is pretty, one needs new dresses and fresh gloves; one can't wear shabby gowns among the splendors of the Louvre."
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