Olive in Italy Part 27

"I will ask questions to keep you awake, but you must answer truly.

Have you taken a fancy to anyone here?"

"I don't dislike you or Mario."

They rose simultaneously and bowed. "We are honoured. But why? Bembi here is a fine figure of a man."

"Enough!" growled Bembi. "You talk too much."

During the rest Olive went to look at the boys' work; it was brilliantly impressionistic. The younger had evidently founded himself on Mario, and Mario was, perhaps, a genius.

They came and sat down, one on either side of her.

"Why are you pretending to be a model?" whispered Mario. "We can see you are not. Are you hiding from someone?"

She shook her head. "I am earning my bread," she answered. "Be kind to me."

"We will." He patted her bare shoulder with the air of a grandfather, but his brown eyes sparkled.

"Why are some of the men so old, and why is some of the work so--"

"Bad." Mario squinted at Bembi's black, smudged drawing. "I will tell you. That bald man in the corner is seventy-two; painting is his amus.e.m.e.nt, and he loves models. He wants to marry Fortunata, but she won't have him because he is toothless. Once, twenty-five years ago, he sold a watercolour for ten lire and he has never forgotten it."

"Really because he is toothless?"

"Oh, he is mad too, and she is afraid of him. Cesare and I are the only ones here who will make you look human. It is a pity, as you are really _carina_."

He patted her shoulder again and pinched her ear, and Cesare pa.s.sed his arm about her waist. She struggled to free herself.

"Let her go!" cried the other men, and, flushed and dishevelled, she took refuge on the throne. The pose was resumed, and the room settled down to work again.

She kept very still, but after a while the tears that filled her eyes overflowed, ran down her cheeks, and dripped upon the hand that held the fan.

"I am sorry," cried Mario.

"And I."

"Forgive me."

"And me."

"I was a _mascalzone_!"

"And I."

"Forgive them for our sakes," growled Bembi, "or they will cackle all night."

Olive laughed a little in spite of herself, but she was very tired and they had hurt her. The marks of Cesare's fingers showed red still on her wrist, and the lace of the short sleeve was torn.

Mario clattered out of the room presently, and came back with a gla.s.s of water for her. "I am really sorry," he whispered as he gave it. "Do stop crying."

After all they had not meant any harm. She was a little comforted, and the expressed contrition helped her.

"I shall be better soon," she said gently.

When she got home to the apartment in Via Arco della Ciambella there were lies to be told about the lessons, the pupils, the hours. The fine edge of her exaltation was already blunted, and she sighed at the thought of her morning dreams; sighed and was glad; the first steps had not cost much after all, and she had earned five lire and fifteen soldi.

The lamp was lit in the little sitting-room, and Ser Giulia was there, cutting out a skirt on the table very carefully, in a tense silence that was broken only by the click of the scissors and the rustle of silk.

"I have lost confidence in myself," she said as she fastened the s.h.i.+ning lengths together with pins. "This _is_ the right side of the material, isn't it, my dear? I can't see."

"Yes, this is right. Let me st.i.tch the seams for you. Where is Signora Aurelia?"

"She has gone to bed. Her head ached. She--she does not complain, but I think she needs more sun and air than she can get here."

Olive looked at her quickly. "You ought to go away and rest, both of you."

"Our brother in Como would be glad to have us with him, but it is impossible at present. I paid our rent a few days ago--three months in advance."

"I will go to the house-agent in the Piazza di Spagna to-morrow. It should not be difficult to get a tenant, and at the end of the time the furniture could be warehoused, or you could sell it."

Ser Giulia hesitated. "What would you do then, _figliuola mia_?"

"Oh, I can take care of myself," the girl said easily.

CHAPTER IV

After the first week Olive went only to Camille's _atelier_. He was working hard at his "_etude blanche_," but no one had been allowed to see it, except, of course, M'sieur le Directeur.

"I almost wish I had asked you to come always heavily veiled. The other men are all mad about you, and Gontrand tells me he wants you to give him sittings for the head of an oread, but he cannot have you.

You are mine."

"Is he a lean, black-bearded man?"

"Yes."

"He spoke to me the other day as I was coming through the garden, and asked me if you were really painting a '_jeune fille_' picture. I said you were painting a picture, and he would probably see it when you had your show in April."

Camille laughed. "Good child! We must keep up the mystery." He flung down his brushes. "I cannot work any more to-day. Will you come with me for a drive into the Campagna?"

She hesitated. "I am not sure--"

"Come as my little brother." He took off his linen painting sleeves, and began to dabble his fingers in a pan of turpentine. "My little brother! Do you know that the Directeur thinks you are charming, and he wonders that I do not love you."

"I am glad you do not," she said, colouring. "If you did--"