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Then you went to your room. Oh, what did you think in your room?" "I thought of your niece," responds Arnaud wildly. "How very beautiful she was, and what a model she would make. Then I prepared a blank canvas for the morning, and went to bed. When I woke up the picture was there." "And you remember nothing more nothing at all?" insists Jean Potin. "You fell asleep at once? You heard no sound?"
Felix Potin, my neighbour when I was living at 11 Boulevard Malesherbes, had responded to my appeal by sending two barrels of raisins, a hundred boxes of sardines, three sacks of rice, two sacks of lentils, and twenty sugar-loaves. From M. de Rothschild I had received two barrels of brandy and a hundred bottles of his own wine for the convalescents. I also received a very unexpected present.
The only adornments that she allowed herself were silk ribbons, which she had in great profusion, and of various colors mixed together, in the pretentious caps which she wore at home. As soon as she saw her husband she rose and said, as she kissed his whiskers: "Did you remember Potin, my dear?"
The pineapple was an English hothouse product, the grapes were grown by a costly process under glass in Belgium. As for the peaches, Potin had sent those delicately blushing marvels, and the charge for this would be "not less than a louis apiece, sir a louis d'or which, as you no doubt know, is about four dollars of Uncle Sam's money."
Potin was authorized to make this division; but whether he was authorised or not, we think he could not make it, without the co-operation of one or more officers of the administration, since he was himself one of the ship-owners. It would have been the more easy to have this division superintended by an officer of the government, as there were then three or four at St.
Potin clenches his fist: "I will have the truth from the girl herself! There is something here I do not like!" Roughly he pushes past the artist and mounts to Jehane's room. She is not there, neither is she at her desk. Nor yet down in the village. They search everywhere; there is a hue and cry; people rush to and fro. Then suddenly a shout; and a silence, a dreadful silence.
"Mademoiselle Jehane?" the stranger looks up sharply. "My niece, monsieur; you have perhaps heard of her, for I see by your easel you are an artist. She is supposed to be of a rare beauty; I think it myself." Jean Potin keeps up a running flow of talk as he conducts his visitor down the long bare passages, past blistered yellow doors.
We were all made welcome; we had all clean linen to put on, water to wash our feet; a sumptuous table was ready for us. As for myself, I was received, with several of my companions, in the house of Messrs. Potin and Durecur, Merchants of Bordeaux. Every thing they possessed was lavished upon us. They gave me linen, light clothes, in short, whatever I wanted. I had nothing left.
There is no mistaking those bold, black lines, that peculiar way of indicating muscle beneath the tightly stretched skin it is his own work! Anywhere would he have known it! A knock at the door! Jean Potin enters, radiating cheerfulness. "Breakfast in your room, monsieur? We are busy this morning; I share in the work. Permit me to move the table and the easel Sacré-bleu!"
You came home alone by a route chosen by yourself, flushed and wrathful, braving the dangers of Kensington High Street. This, after my stern and deliberate edict that, upon pain of corporal punishment, respect and obedience must be paid to Mademoiselle Potin. The logic of the position was relentless.
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