Jacqueline, vol 1 | Page 8

became less
familiar than she had been with the man she called "my great painter."
Indeed, in her heart of hearts, she cherished a grudge against him. She
thought he presumed on the right he had assumed of teasing her. The
older she grew the more he treated her as if she were a baby, and, in the
little passages of arms that continually took place between them,
Jacqueline was bitterly conscious that she no longer had the best of it as
formerly. She was no longer as droll and lively as she had been. She
was easily disconcerted, and took everything 'au serieux', and her wits
became paralyzed by an embarrassment that was new to her. And,
pained by the sort of sarcasm which Marien kept up in all their

intercourse, she was often ready to burst into tears after talking to him.
Yet she was never quite satisfied unless he was present. She counted
the days from one Wednesday to another, for on Wednesdays he
always dined with them, and she greeted any opportunity of seeing him
on other days as a great pleasure. This week, for example, would be
marked with a white stone. She would have seen him twice. For half an
hour Marien had been enduring the bore of the reception, standing
silent and self-absorbed in the midst of the gay talk, which did not
interest him. He wished to escape, but was always kept from doing so
by some word or sign from Madame de Nailles. Jacqueline had been
thinking: "Oh! if he would only come and talk to us!" He was now
drawing near them, and an instinct made her wish to rush up to him and
tell him--what should she tell him? She did not know. A few moments
before so many things to tell him had been passing through her brain.
What she said was: "Monsieur Marien, I recommend to you these little
spiced cakes." And, with some awkwardness, because her hand was
trembling, she held out the plate to him.
"No, thank you, Mademoiselle," he said, affecting a tone of great
ceremony, "I prefer to take this glass of punch, if you will permit me."
"The punch is cold, I fear; suppose we were to put a little tea in it.
Stay--let me help you."
"A thousand thanks; but I like to attend to such little cookeries myself.
By the way, it seems to me that Mademoiselle Giselle, in her character
of an angel who disapproves of the good things of this life, has not left
us much to eat at your table."
"Who--I?" cried the poor schoolgirl, in a tone of injured innocence and
astonishment.
"Don't pay any attention to him," said Jacqueline, as if taking her under
her protection. "He is nothing but a tease; what he says is only chaff.
But I might as well talk Greek to her," she added, shrugging her
shoulders. "In the convent they don't know what to make of a joke.
Only spare her at least, if you please, Monsieur Marien."

"I know by report that Mademoiselle Giselle is worthy of the most
profound respect," continued the pitiless painter. "I lay myself at her
feet--and at yours. Now I am going to slip away in the English fashion.
Good-evening."
"Why do you go so soon? You can't do any more work today."
"No, it has been a day lost--that is true."
"That's polite! By the way--" here Jacqueline became very red and she
spoke rapidly--" what made you just now stare at me so persistently?"
"I? Impossible that I could have permitted myself to stare at you,
Mademoiselle."
"That is just what you did, though. I thought you had found something
to find fault with. What could it be? I fancied there was something
wrong with my hair, something absurd that you were laughing at. You
always do laugh, you know."
"Wrong with your hair? It is always wrong. But that is not your fault.
You are not responsible for its looking like a hedgehog's."
"Hedgehogs haven't any hair," said Jacqueline, much hurt by the
observation.
"True, they have only prickles, which remind me of the susceptibility
of your temper. I beg your pardon I was looking at you critically. Being
myself indulgent and kindhearted, I was only looking at you from an
artist's point of view--as is always allowable in my profession.
Remember, I see you very rarely by daylight. I am obliged to work as
long as the light allows me. Well, in the light of this April sunshine I
was saying to myself--excuse my boldness!--that you had reached the
right age for a picture."
"For a picture? Were you thinking of painting me?" cried Jacqueline,
radiant with pleasure.

"Hold a moment, please. Between a dream and its execution lies a great
space.