Pas d'avant les domestiques

The day Mouse started on Virginia's portrait, he was in effect already the Bobbit's son-in-law. The three Bobbits flourished in this studio, which they got used to thinking of as one of their residences. There was an inexplicable attraction for them in this clean, tidy, pleasant place belonging to an artist without chaos. Abyssus Abyssum, yuppsters attract yuppsters. Towards the end of the sitting, there was a noise on the staircase, the door was roughly thrown open and there stood Josef Bridau. He was greatly agitated, his hair flying, his large face distraught. His glances flashed all over the studio, he paced all around it and came abruptly back to Keene, gathering his jacket over his gastric regions and trying, without success, to button it up, for the button had escaped from its thread.

Materials are expensive, he said to Keene.

Oh!

Some process server is after me. What, you paint those things?"

Be quiet.

Oh, yes!

The Bobbit family, extremely shocked by this strange apparition, fumed from its ordinary red to the cherry red of a violent flame.

That brings in the moola! replied Josef. Have you any cash on you ?

Do you need much?

Five-hundred bucks. I've got one of those shopkeepers like a bulldog after me, the kind that, once they have their teeth into you, never let go. What a tribe!

I'l1 give you a note for my lawyer. He'll get it from my account.

So you've got a lawyer?

Yes.

That explains then why you still paint pink cheeks; they are excellent for a cosmetics ad.

Keene could not suppress a blush. Virginia was sitting for him.

Tackle Nature as it is, continued the great artist. The young lady is a redhead. Well, is that a mortal sin? In painting everything is magnificent. Put some vermilion on your palette, warm up those cheeks, dot in their little brown marks, lay it on. Do you want to do better than Nature?

Look here, said Mouse, take the tablet while I go and write a note.

Pére Bobbit rolled up to the table and whispered in Keene's ear.

But that yokel will spoil it all, he said.

If he were willing to paint your Virginia's portrait, it would be a thousand times better than mine, replied Mouse indignantly.

When he heard this, the retiree meekly retreated to his wife who was struck dumb by the wild animal's intrusion and was very little reassured by seeing him cooperate in painting her daughter's portrait.

Here you are, continue on these lines, said Bridau giving back the tablet and taking the note. I never say thank-you. Now I can go back to that suburban palace where I am doing paintings for Mr. MiniFlacid's virtual smoking lounge and Leona Delora is doing masterpieces for the cyber pavillion. Come and see us.

He went away without a farewell nod; he had had more than enough of looking at Virginia.

Who is that man ? asked Mrs. Bobbit.

A great artist, replied Keene.

There was a moment's silence.

Are you quite sure that he hasn't spoiled my portrait? said Virginia. He frightened me.

He has done it nothing but good, replied Keene.

If he is a great artist, I prefer a great artist who is like you, said Mrs. Bobbit.

Oh, Mamma, Mr. Mickey is a much greater painter. His portrait of me will be full length, remarked Virginia.

The unruly ways of Art had scared these tidy-minded bourgeois.

the phase
of autumn, so pleasantly known as Indian summer, was just beginning. With the timidity of a neophyte in the presence of a genius Mr. Bobbit took the bold step of inviting Keene to the country house the following Sunday. He knew how few attractions a retired suburbanite could offer an artist.

You artists, he smiled, you want excitement, wonderful sights, and witty company. But there will be good wines and I am counting on my picture gallery to compensate you for the boredom that an artist like you might feel in the company of business people.

This hero-worship, directed only at his vanity, won the heart of Mickey Keene, who was little used to such compliments. The honest artist, this unspeakable mediocrity, this heart of gold, this loyal soul, this stupid draftsman, this good fellow decorated with the award of public acclaim, dressed himself in battle array to go and enjoy the last fine hours of the season at a beautiful resort.

The painter traveled modestly by public transport and could not but admire the bioplastics man's country manse placed in the middle of a five-acre park, at the top of a ridge where the view was at its best. To marry Virginia would be to own this beautiful house one day He was received by the Bobbits with an enthusiasm, a joy, a good-natured and honest upper middleclass obtuseness that staggered him. It was a day of triumph.

The future husband was shown round the colored-pebble garden paths that had been recently raked for his visit. Even the trees looked as if they had been carefully combed, and the lawns had been manicured. The pure country air wafted absolutely delicious smells from the kitchen. Indoors, the servants were saying, We have a great artist visiting. Little Father Bobbit rolled about his big garden like a beachball, the daughter undulated like an eel, and the mother brought up the rear with a firm and stately step. Throughout the day these three beings clung onto Keene.

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