Feeling, sincerity, poetry, were in his eyes
mere folly in business matters.
So Rivet went off to see, in behalf of that poor Mademoiselle Fischer,
who, as he said, had been "done" by the Pole, the rich manufacturers
for whom Steinbock had worked. It happened that Stidmann--who, with
the help of these distinguished masters of the goldsmiths' art, was
raising French work to the perfection it has now reached, allowing it
to hold its own against Florence and the Renaissance--Stidmann was in
Chanor's private room when the army lace manufacturer called to make
inquiries as to "One Steinbock, a Polish refugee."
"Whom do you call 'One Steinbock'? Do you mean a young Livonian who
was a pupil of mine?" cried Stidmann ironically. "I may tell you,
monsieur, that he is a very great artist. It is said of me that I
believe myself to be the Devil. Well, that poor fellow does not know
that he is capable of becoming a god."
"Indeed," said Rivet, well pleased. And then he added, "Though you
take a rather cavalier tone with a man who has the honor to be an
Assessor on the Tribunal of Commerce of the Department of the Seine."
"Your pardon, Consul!" said Stidmann, with a military salute.
"I am delighted," the Assessor went on, "to hear what you say. The man
may make money then?"
"Certainly," said Chanor; "but he must work. He would have a tidy sum
by now if he had stayed with us. What is to be done? Artists have a
horror of not being free.
Pages:
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111