It was the second time he had asked this of her.  She did not like to see new faces.  She replied, unconcernedly: 

“Your sculptor?  When you wish.  I saw at the Champ de Mars medallions made by him which are very good.  But he does not work much.  He is an amateur, is he not?”

“He is a delicate artist.  He does not need to work in order to live.  He caresses his figures with loving slowness.  But do not be deceived about him, Madame.  He knows and he feels.  He would be a master if he did not live alone.  I have known him since his childhood.  People think that he is solitary and morose.  He is passionate and timid.  What he lacks, what he will lack always to reach the highest point of his art, is simplicity of mind.  He is restless, and he spoils his most beautiful impressions.  In my opinion he was created less for sculpture than for poetry or philosophy.  He knows a great deal, and you will be astonished at the wealth of his mind.”

Madame Marmet approved.

She pleased society by appearing to find pleasure in it.  She listened a great deal and talked little.  Very affable, she gave value to her affability by not squandering it.  Either because she liked Madame Martin, or because she knew how to give discreet marks of preference in every house she went, she warmed herself contentedly, like a relative, in a corner of the Louis XVI chimney, which suited her beauty.  She lacked only her dog.

“How is Toby?” asked Madame Martin.  “Monsieur Vence, do you know Toby?  He has long silky hair and a lovely little black nose.”

Madame Marmet was relishing the praise of Toby, when an old man, pink and blond, with curly hair, short-sighted, almost blind under his golden spectacles, rather short, striking against the furniture, bowing to empty armchairs, blundering into the mirrors, pushed his crooked nose before Madame Marmet, who looked at him indignantly.

It was M. Schmoll, member of the Academie des Inscriptions.  He smiled and turned a madrigal for the Countess Martin with that hereditary harsh, coarse voice with which the Jews, his fathers, pressed their creditors, the peasants of Alsace, of Poland, and of the Crimea.  He dragged his phrases heavily.  This great philologist knew all languages except French.  And Madame Martin enjoyed his affable phrases, heavy and rusty like the iron-work of brica-brac shops, among which fell dried leaves of anthology.  M. Schmoll liked poets and women, and had wit.

Madame Marmet feigned not to know him, and went out without returning his bow.

When he had exhausted his pretty madrigals, M. Schmoll became sombre and pitiful.  He complained piteously.  He was not decorated enough, not provided with sinecures enough, nor well fed enough by the State—­he, Madame Schmoll, and their five daughters.  His lamentations had some grandeur.  Something of the soul of Ezekiel and of Jeremiah was in them.

Unfortunately, turning his golden-spectacled eyes toward the table, he discovered Vivian Bell’s book.