The Red Lily | Page 4

little vivacious man with shrewd eyes, came in suddenly--Madame
Marmet and M. Paul Vence. Then, carrying himself very stiffly, with a
square monocle in his eye, appeared M. Daniel Salomon, the arbiter of
elegance. The General hurried out.
They talked of the novel of the week. Madame Marmet had dined often
with the author, a young and very amiable man. Paul Vence thought the
book tiresome.
"Oh," sighed Madame Martin, "all books are tiresome. But men are
more tiresome than books, and they are more exacting."
Madame Marmet said that her husband, who had much literary taste,
had retained, until the end of his days, a horror of naturalism. She was
the widow of a member of the 'Academie des Inscriptions', and plumed
herself upon her illustrious widowhood. She was sweet and modest in
her black gown and her beautiful white hair.
Madame Martin said to M. Daniel Salomon that she wished to consult
him particularly on the picture of a group of beautiful children.
"You will tell me if it pleases you. You may also give me your opinion,
Monsieur Vence, unless you disdain such trifles."
M. Daniel Salomon looked at Paul Vence through his monocle with
disdain. Paul Vence surveyed the drawing-room.
"You have beautiful things, Madame. That would be nothing. But you
have only beautiful things, and all serve to set off your own beauty."
She did not conceal her pleasure at hearing him speak in that way. She
regarded Paul Vence as the only really intelligent man she knew. She
had appreciated him before his books had made him celebrated. His
ill-health, his dark humor, his assiduous labor, separated him from
society. The little bilious man was not very pleasing; yet he attracted

her. She held in high esteem his profound irony, his great pride, his
talent ripened in solitude, and she admired him, with reason, as an
excellent writer, the author of powerful essays on art and on life.
Little by little the room filled with a brilliant crowd. Within the large
circle of armchairs were Madame de Wesson, about whom people told
frightful stories, and who kept, after twenty years of half-smothered
scandal, the eyes of a child and cheeks of virginal smoothness; old
Madame de Morlaine, who shouted her witty phrases in piercing cries;
Madame Raymond, the wife of the Academician; Madame Garain, the
wife of the exminister; three other ladies; and, standing easily against
the mantelpiece, M. Berthier d'Eyzelles, editor of the 'Journal des
Debats', a deputy who caressed his white beard while Madame de
Morlaine shouted at him:
"Your article on bimetallism is a pearl, a jewel! Especially the end of
it."
Standing in the rear of the room, young clubmen, very grave, lisped
among themselves:
"What did he do to get the button from the Prince?"
"He, nothing. His wife, everything."
They had their own cynical philosophy. One of them had no faith in
promises of men.
"They are types that do not suit me. They wear their hearts on their
hands and on their mouths. You present yourself for admission to a
club. They say, 'I promise to give you a white ball. It will be an
alabaster ball--a snowball! They vote. It's a black ball. Life seems a vile
affair when I think of it."
"Then don't think of it."
Daniel Salomon, who had joined them, whispered in their ears spicy
stories in a lowered voice. And at every strange revelation concerning

Madame Raymond, or Madame Berthier, or Princess Seniavine, he
added, negligently:
"Everybody knows it."
Then, little by little, the crowd of visitors dispersed. Only Madame
Marmet and Paul Vence remained.
The latter went toward Madame Martin, and asked:
"When do you wish me to introduce Dechartre to you?"
It was the second time he had asked this of her. She did not like to see
new faces. She replied, unconcernedly:
"Your sculptor? When you wish. I saw at the Champ de Mars
medallions made by him which are very good. But he does not work
much. He is an amateur, is he not?"
"He is a delicate artist. He does not need to work in order to live. He
caresses his figures with loving slowness. But do not be deceived about
him, Madame. He knows and he feels. He would be a master if he did
not live alone. I have known him since his childhood. People think that
he is solitary and morose. He is passionate and timid. What he lacks,
what he will lack always to reach the highest point of his art, is
simplicity of mind. He is restless, and he spoils his most beautiful
impressions. In my opinion he was created less for sculpture than for
poetry or philosophy. He knows a great deal, and you will be
astonished at the wealth of his