asked:

"When do you wish me to introduce Dechartre to you?"

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