Everyman's Land

								

foster-mother. The morning after Brian left, she came waddling out to
the adorable, earwiggy, rose-covered summer-house that I'd annexed as a
private sitting room. "Mademoiselle," she breathlessly announced, "there
is a young millionaire of a monsieur Anglais or Américain just arrived.
What a pity he should be wasted because Monsieur your brother has gone!
I am sure if he could but see one of the exquisite pictures he would
wish to buy all!"
"How do you know that the monsieur is a millionaire, and what makes you
think he would care about pictures?" I enquired.
"I know he is a millionaire because he has come in one of those grand
automobiles which only millionaires ever have. And I think he cares for
pictures because the first thing he did when he came into the hall was
to stare at the old prints on the wall. He praised the two best which
the real artists always praise, and complimented me on owning them" the
dear creature explained. "Besides, he is in this neighbourhood expressly
to see the cathedral; and monsieur your brother has made a most
beautiful sketch of the cathedral. It is now in his portfolio. Is there
nothing we can do? I have already induced the monsieur to drink a glass
of milk while I have come to consult Mademoiselle."
I thought hard for a minute, because it would be grand if I could say
when Brian came back, "I have sold your cathedral for you." But I might
have saved myself brain fag. Madame Mounet had settled everything in her
head, and was merely playing me, like a foolish fish.
"What I have thought of is this," she said. "I told the monsieur that he
could see something better than my prints if he would give himself the
pain of waiting till I could fetch the key of a room where an
artist-client of ours has a marvellous exhibition. There is no such
room yet, but there can be, and the exhibition can be, too, if
Mademoiselle will make haste to pin her brother's pictures to the walls
of the yellow salon. With a hammer and a few tacks--voilà the thing
is done. What does Mademoiselle say?"
Mademoiselle said "Yes--yes!" to her part of the programme. But what of
the millionaire monsieur? Would he not balk? Would he not refuse to be
bothered?
Madame was absolutely confident that he would not do these disappointing
things. She was so confident that I vaguely suspected she had something
up her sleeve: but time pressed, and instead of Sherlock Holmesing I
darted to my work. Afterward she confessed, with pride rather than
repentance. She described graphically how the face of the monsieur had
fallen when she asked him to look at an exhibition of pictures; how he
had begun to make an excuse that he must be off at once to the
cathedral; and how she had ventured to cut him short by remarking,
"Mademoiselle the sister of the artist, she who will show the work, ah,
it is a jeune fille of the most romantic beauty!" On hearing this,
the monsieur had said no more about the cathedral, but had ordered the