The remark “you need not hurry” proved to the two artists the unimportance of their late travelling companion in the eyes of their hostess; but it also showed, what they did not know, the feeling of a step-mother against a step-son. Madame Moreau, after seventeen years of married life, could not be ignorant of the steward’s attachment to Madame Clapart and the little Husson, and she hated both mother and child so vehemently that it is not surprising that Moreau had never before risked bringing Oscar to Presles. “We are requested, my husband and myself,” she said to the two artists, “to do you the honors of the chateau. We both love art, and, above all, artists,” she added in a mincing tone; “and I beg you to make yourselves at home here. In the country, you know, every one should be at their ease; one must feel wholly at liberty, or life is _too_ insipid. We have already had Monsieur Schinner with us.” Mistigris gave a sly glance at his companion. “You know him, of course?” continued Estelle, after a slight pause. “Who does not know him, madame?” said the painter. “Knows him like his double,” remarked Mistigris. “Monsieur Grindot told me your name,” said Madame Moreau to the painter. “But--” “Joseph Bridau,” he replied, wondering with what sort of woman he had to do. Mistigris began to rebel internally against the patronizing manner of the steward’s wife; but he waited, like Bridau, for some word which might give him his cue; one of those words “de singe a dauphin” which artists, cruel, born-observers of the ridiculous--the pabulum of their pencils--seize with such avidity. Meantime Estelle’s clumsy hands and feet struck their eyes, and presently a word, or phrase or two, betrayed her past, and quite out of keeping with the elegance of her dress, made the two young fellows aware of their prey. A single glance at each other was enough to arrange a scheme that they should take Estelle seriously on her own ground, and thus find amusement enough during the time of their stay. “You say you love art, madame; perhaps you cultivate it successfully,” said Joseph Bridau. “No. Without being neglected, my education was purely commercial; but I have so profound and delicate a sense of art that Monsieur Schinner always asked me, when he had finished a piece of work, to give him my opinion on it.” “Just as Moliere consulted La Foret,” said Mistigris. Not knowing that La Foret was Moliere’s servant-woman, Madame Moreau inclined her head graciously, showing that in her ignorance she accepted the speech as a compliment. “Didn’t he propose to ‘croquer’ you?” asked Bridau. “Painters are eager enough after handsome women.” “What may you mean by such language?” “In the studios we say croquer, craunch, nibble, for sketching,” interposed Mistigris, with an insinuating air, “and we are always wanting to croquer beautiful heads. That’s the origin of the expression, ‘She is pretty enough to eat.’”