Newman inquired with interest about Mademoiselle Noemie;
and M. Nioche, at first, for answer, simply looked at him in lachrymose
silence.
"Don't ask me, sir," he said at last. "I sit and watch her, but I can do
nothing."
"Do you mean that she misconducts herself?"
"I don't know, I am sure. I can't follow her. I don't understand her.
She has something in her head; I don't know what she is trying to do.
She is too deep for me."
"Does she continue to go to the Louvre? Has she made any of those copies
for me?"
"She goes to the Louvre, but I see nothing of the copies. She has
something on her easel; I suppose it is one of the pictures you ordered.
Such a magnificent order ought to give her fairy-fingers. But she is
not in earnest. I can't say anything to her; I am afraid of her. One
evening, last summer, when I took her to walk in the Champs Elysees, she
said some things to me that frightened me."
"What were they?"
"Excuse an unhappy father from telling you," said M. Nioche, unfolding
his calico pocket-handkerchief.
Newman promised himself to pay Mademoiselle Noemie another visit at the
Louvre. He was curious about the progress of his copies, but it must
be added that he was still more curious about the progress of the young
lady herself. He went one afternoon to the great museum, and wandered
through several of the rooms in fruitless quest of her.
Pages:
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218