In Friendships Guise | Page 2

me--no letter?"
"Indeed, no, monsieur; he departed in great haste."
An appeal to a superior official of the hotel met with the same response, and Jack turned away. He wandered slowly down the gay street, the parcel hanging listlessly under his left arm, and his right hand jingling the few coins in his pocket. His journey over the river, begun so hopefully, had ended in a bitter disappointment.
Martin Von Whele was a retired merchant, a rich native of Amsterdam, and his private collection of paintings was well known throughout Europe. He had come to Paris a month before to attend a private sale, and had there purchased, at a bargain, an exceedingly fine Rembrandt that had but recently been unearthed from a hiding-place of centuries. He determined to have a copy made for his country house in Holland, and chance brought him in contact with Jack Clare, who at the time was reproducing for an art patron a landscape in the Luxembourg Gallery--a sort of thing that he was not too proud to undertake when he was getting short of money. Monsieur Von Whele liked the young Englishman's work and came to an agreement with him. Jack copied the Rembrandt at the Hotel Netherlands, going there at odd hours, and made a perfect duplicate of it--a dangerous one, as the Hollander laughingly suggested. Jack applied the finishing touches at his studio, and artfully gave the canvas an appearance of age. He was to receive the promised payment when he delivered the painting at the Hotel Netherlands, and he had confidently expected it. But, as has been seen, Martin Von Whele had gone home in haste, leaving no letter or message. For the present there was no likelihood of getting a cheque from him.
The brightness of the day aggravated Jack's disappointment as he walked back to the little street just off the Boulevard St. Germain. He tried to look cheerful as he mounted the stairs and threw the duplicate Rembrandt into a corner of the studio, behind a stack of unfinished sketches. Diane entered from the bedroom, ravishingly dressed for the street in a costume that well set off her perfect figure. She was a picture of beauty with her ivory complexion, her mass of dark brown hair, and the wonderfully large and deep eyes that had been one of her chief charms at the Folies Bergere.
"Good boy!" she cried. "You did not keep me waiting long. But you look as glum as a bear. What is the matter?"
Jack explained briefly, in an appealing voice.
"I'm awfully sorry for your sake, dear," he added. "We are down to our last twenty-franc piece, but in another fortnight--"
"Then you won't take me?"
"How can I? Don't be unreasonable."
"You promised, Jack. And see, I am all ready. I won't stay at home!"
"Is it my fault, Diane? Can I help it that Von Whele has left Paris?"
"You can help it that you have no money. Oh, I wish I had not given up the stage!"
Diane stamped one little foot, and angry tears rose to her eyes. She tore off her hat and jacket and dashed them to the floor. She threw herself on a couch.
"You deceived me!" she cried bitterly. "You promised that I should want for nothing--that you would always have plenty of money. And this is how you keep your word! You are selfish, unkind! I hate you!"
She continued to reproach him, growing more and more angry. Words of the lowest Parisian argot, picked up from her companions of the Folies Bergere, fell from her lovely lips--words that brought a blush of shame, a look of horror and repulsion, to Jack's face.
"Diane," he said pleadingly, as he bent over the couch.
Her mood changed as quickly, and she suddenly clasped her arms around his neck.
"Forgive me, Jack," she whispered.
"I always do," he sighed.
"And, please, please get some money--now."
"You know that I can't."
"Yes, you can. You have lots of friends--they won't refuse you."
"But I hate to ask them. Of course, Jimmie Drexell would gladly loan me a few pounds--"
"Then go to him," pleaded Diane, as she hung on his neck and stopped his protests with a shower of kisses. "Go and get the money, Jack, dear--you can pay it back when your remittance comes. And we will have such a jolly day! I am sure you don't want to work."
Jack hesitated, and finally gave in; it was hard for him to resist a woman's tears and entreaties--least of all when that woman was his fascinating little wife. A moment later he was in the street, walking rapidly toward the studio of his American friend and fellow-artist, Jimmie Drexell.
"How Diane twists me around her finger!" he reflected ruefully. "I hate these rows, and they have been more frequent of late. When she is in a temper, and lets loose with