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Updated: July 2, 2025
They avoided talking about money, and he did not mention the name of Madame de Pastourelles; though of course his letters had reported the external history of the portrait. But Phoebe presently inquired after it. 'Have you nearly done painting that lady, John? I don't know how to say her name. As she spoke, she lifted a bit of bread-and-butter to her mouth and put it down untasted.
Fenwick listened greedily, and presently inquired whether Mr. Welby had shared in all these amusements. 'Oh yes. He was generally the life and soul of them. 'I suppose he made lots of friends and got on with everybody? Madame de Pastourelles assented cautiously. 'That's all a question of manners, said Fenwick, with sudden roughness.
Then, as the sun began to drop quickly, Madame de Pastourelles rose, and went to the corner of the château, to see if the gentlemen were in sight. But in less than a minute Mrs. Welby called her back. 'I must go in now, she said, fretfully. 'This place is really too cold!
The good woman took with her her daughter; a dozen young and pretty pastourelles, Marie's friends and relatives; two or three respectable matrons, her neighbours, loquacious, quick of reply, and rigid guardians of ancient usages; then she selected a dozen vigorous champions from her kinsmen and friends; and lastly, the old chauvreur or flaxdresser of the parish, a man of eloquence and address if ever there was one.
Madame de Pastourelles rose to her feet, rigid and straight in her black dress, wrestling as though with an attacking Apollyon. She seemed to herself a murderess in thought the lowest and vilest of human beings.
Her heart sank and sank. 'Can't we begin again? she said, in a low voice, while the tears rose in her eyes. 'I'm sorry for what I did. 'How does that help it? he said, irritably. 'I'm a ruined man. I can't paint any more or, at any rate, the world doesn't care a ha'p'orth what I paint. I should be a bankrupt but for Madame de Pastourelles
'Haven't you seen it? You really should. But this elicited even less response. Fenwick glared at him apparently tongue-tied. Then Madame de Pastourelles and her neighbour talked to each other, endeavouring to draw in the stranger. In vain. They fell back, naturally, into the talk of intimates, implying a thousand common memories and experiences; and Fenwick found himself left alone.
The 'it' turned out to be a Titian portrait from the collection of an old Roman family, lately brought to London and under offer to the National Gallery, of which Lord Findon was a trustee. Madame de Pastourelles looked towards her father, confirming what the unknown youth had said. Her eyes had kindled. She began to talk rapidly in defence of her opinion.
Watson was silent a little, lit another cigarette, and then said, with a smile: 'Poor Madame de Pastourelles! Fenwick looked up with irritation. 'What on earth do you mean? 'I am wondering how she kept the peace between you her two great friends. 'She sees very little of Welby. 'Ah! Since when? 'Oh! for a long time. Of course they meet occasionally
Ever since the death of M. le Comte de Pastourelles, dreams concerning these two people had been stirring in the brain of Watson, and these dreams spoke now in the dark eyes he bent on Fenwick. Presently, Fenwick began to talk gloomily of the death of his old Bernard Street landlady, who had become his housekeeper and factotum in the new Chelsea house and studio, which he had built for himself.
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