The American. Генри Джеймс
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upon all the variously embodied human nature around her, and she had formed her conclusions. In a certain sense, it seemed to Newman, M. Nioche might be at rest; his daughter might do something very audacious, but she would never do anything foolish. Newman, with his long-drawn, leisurely smile, and his even, unhurried utterance, was always, mentally, taking his time; and he asked himself, now, what she was looking at him in that way for. He had an idea that she would like him to confess that he did think her a bad girl.
“Oh, no,” he said at last; “it would be very bad manners in me to judge you that way. I don’t know you.”
“But my father has complained to you,” said Mademoiselle Noémie.
“He says you are a coquette.”
“He shouldn’t go about saying such things to gentlemen! But you don’t believe it?”
“No,” said Newman gravely, “I don’t believe it.”
She looked at him again, gave a shrug and a smile, and then pointed to a small Italian picture, a Marriage of St. Catherine. “How should you like that?” she asked.
“It doesn’t please me,” said Newman. “The young lady in the yellow dress is not pretty.”
“Ah, you are a great connoisseur,” murmured Mademoiselle Noémie.
“In pictures? Oh, no; I know very little about them.”
“In pretty women, then.”
“In that I am hardly better.”
“What do you say to that, then?” the young girl asked, indicating a superb Italian portrait of a lady. “I will do it for you on a smaller scale.”
“On a smaller scale? Why not as large as the original?”
Mademoiselle Noémie glanced at the glowing splendor of the Venetian masterpiece and gave a little toss of her head. “I don’t like that woman. She looks stupid.”
“I do like her,” said Newman. “Decidedly, I must have her, as large as life. And just as stupid as she is there.”
The young girl fixed her eyes on him again, and with her mocking smile, “It certainly ought to be easy for me to make her look stupid!” she said.
“What do you mean?” asked Newman, puzzled.
She gave another little shrug. “Seriously, then, you want that portrait—the golden hair, the purple satin, the pearl necklace, the two magnificent arms?”
“Everything—just as it is.”
“Would nothing else do, instead?”
“Oh, I want some other things, but I want that too.”
Mademoiselle Noémie turned away a moment, walked to the other side of the hall, and stood there, looking vaguely about her. At last she came back. “It must be charming to be able to order pictures at such a rate. Venetian portraits, as large as life! You go at it en prince. And you are going to travel about Europe that way?”
“Yes, I intend to travel,” said Newman.
“Ordering, buying, spending money?”
“Of course I shall spend some money.”
“You are very happy to have it. And you are perfectly free?”
“How do you mean, free?”
“You have nothing to bother you—no family, no wife, no fiancée?”
“Yes, I am tolerably free.”
“You are very happy,” said Mademoiselle Noémie, gravely.
“Je le veux bien!” said Newman, proving that he had learned more French than he admitted.
“And how long shall you stay in Paris?” the young girl went on.
“Only a few days more.”
“Why do you go away?”
“It is getting hot, and I must go to Switzerland.”
“To Switzerland? That’s a fine country. I would give my new parasol to see it! Lakes and mountains, romantic valleys and icy peaks! Oh, I congratulate you. Meanwhile, I shall sit here through all the hot summer, daubing at your pictures.”
“Oh, take your time about it,” said Newman. “Do them at your convenience.”
They walked farther and looked at a dozen other things. Newman pointed out what pleased him, and Mademoiselle Noémie generally criticised it, and proposed something else. Then suddenly she diverged and began to talk about some personal matter.
“What made you speak to me the other day in the Salon Carré?” she abruptly asked.
“I admired your picture.”
“But you hesitated a long time.”
“Oh, I do nothing rashly,” said Newman.
“Yes, I saw you watching me. But I never supposed you were going to speak to me. I never dreamed I should be walking about here with you to-day. It’s very curious.”
“It is very natural,” observed Newman.
“Oh, I beg your pardon; not to me. Coquette as you think me, I have never walked about in public with a gentleman before. What was my father thinking of, when he consented to our interview?”
“He was repenting of his unjust accusations,” replied Newman.
Mademoiselle Noémie remained silent; at last she dropped into a seat. “Well then, for those five it is fixed,” she said. “Five copies as brilliant and beautiful as I can make them. We have one more to choose. Shouldn’t you like one of those great Rubenses—the marriage of Marie de Médicis? Just look at it and see how handsome it is.”
“Oh, yes; I should like that,” said Newman. “Finish off with that.”
“Finish off with that—good!” And she laughed. She sat a moment, looking at him, and then she suddenly rose and stood before him, with her hands hanging and clasped in front of her. “I don’t understand you,” she said with a smile. “I don’t understand how a man can be so ignorant.”
“Oh, I am ignorant, certainly,” said Newman, putting his hands into his pockets.
“It’s ridiculous! I don’t know how to paint.”
“You don’t know how?”
“I paint like a cat; I can’t draw a straight line. I never sold a picture until you bought that thing the other day.” And as she offered this surprising information she continued to smile.
Newman burst into a laugh. “Why do you tell me this?” he asked.
“Because it irritates me to see a clever man blunder so. My pictures are grotesque.”
“And the one I possess—”
“That one is rather worse than usual.”
“Well,” said Newman, “I like it all the same!”
She looked at him askance. “That is a very pretty thing to say,” she answered; “but it is my duty to warn you before you go farther. This order of yours is impossible, you know. What do you take me for? It is work for ten men. You pick out the six most difficult pictures in the Louvre, and you expect me to go to work as if I were sitting down to hem a dozen pocket handkerchiefs. I wanted to see how far you would go.”
Newman looked at the young girl in some perplexity. In spite of the ridiculous blunder of which he stood convicted, he was very far from being a simpleton, and he had a lively suspicion that Mademoiselle Noémie’s sudden frankness was not essentially more honest than her leaving him in error would have been. She was playing a game; she was not simply taking pity on his æsthetic verdancy. What was it she expected to win? The stakes were high and the risk was great; the prize therefore must have been commensurate. But even granting that the prize might be great, Newman could not resist a movement of admiration for his companion’s intrepidity. She was throwing away with