Paul became enthusiastic.
'Ah! monsieur, it is beautiful. It is a woodland scene. A beautiful
girl--'
'Oh! Then he had better try the magazines. They might use it for a
cover.'
Paul thanked him effusively. On the following Thursday he visited
divers art editors. The art editors seemed to be in the same unhappy
condition as the dealers. 'Overstocked!' was their cry.
'The picture?' said Jeanne, on the Friday morning. 'Is it sold?'
'Not yet,' said Paul, 'but--'
'Always but!'
'My angel!'
'Bah!' said Jeanne, with a toss of her large but shapely head.
By the end of the month Paul was fighting in the last ditch, wandering
disconsolately among those who dwell in outer darkness and have grimy
thumbs. Seven of these in all he visited on that black Thursday, and
each of the seven rubbed the surface of the painting with a grimy
thumb, snorted, and dismissed him. Sick and beaten, Paul took the
masterpiece back to his skylight room.
All that night he lay awake, thinking. It was a weary bundle of nerves
that came to the Parisian Cafe next morning. He was late in arriving,
which was good in that it delayed the inevitable question as to the
fate of the picture, but bad in every other respect. M. Bredin,
squatting behind the cash-desk, grunted fiercely at him; and, worse,
Jeanne, who, owing to his absence, had had to be busier than suited her
disposition, was distant and haughty.
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