"You seemed to have divined her soul."
He shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. "I'm not a psychologist; I
am a painter. But I must get a word with her," and with a carelessness
that was almost insolence, he pushed his way into the crowd and called
her, saying he wanted to speak to her; and they walked round the
_bal_ together. I could not understand his indifference to her
charm, and asked myself if he had always been so indifferent. In a
little while they returned.
"I'll do my best," I heard her say; and she ran back to join her
companions.
"I suppose you've seen enough of the Elysee?"
"Ah! qu'elle est jolie ce soir; et elle ferait joliment marcher le
Russe."
We walked on in silence. Octave did not notice that he had said
anything to jar my feelings; he was thinking of his portrait, and
presently he said that he was sorry she was going to Russia.
"I should like to begin another portrait, now that I have learned to
paint."
"Do you think she'll go to Russia?"
"Yes, she'll go there; but she'll come back one of these days, and
I'll get her to sit again. It is extraordinary how little is known of
the art of painting; the art is forgotten. The old masters did
perfectly in two days what we spend weeks fumbling at.
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