"Time was," he said, "when one met here the cream of Parisian wit and
fashion: the great Flaubert, a noisy fellow at times, I vow; Dumas
_fils_; Cabanel, Gerome, Duran; ever-winning Carolus--ah, what men! Now
we get Polish pianists, crazy Belgians, anarchistic poets, and
Neo-impressionists. I have warned the princess again and again."
"_Becasse!_" interrupted the lady herself. "Monsieur Rajewski has
consented to play a Chopin nocturne. And here are my two painters, Miss
Adams--Messieurs Bla and Maugre. They hate each other like the Jesuits
and Jansenists of the good old days of Pascal."
"She likes to display her learning," grumbled the marquis to Mrs.
Sheldam. "That younger man, Bla, swears by divided tones; his neighbour,
Maugre, paints in dots. One is always to be recognized a half-mile away
by his vibrating waterscapes--he calls them Symphonies of the Wet; the
other goes in for turkeys in the grass, fowls that are cobalt-blue
daubs, with grass a scarlet. It's awful on the optic nerves.
_Pointillisme_, Maugre names his stuff. Now, give me Corot--"
"Hush, hush!" came in energetic sibilants from the princess, who rapped
with her Japanese walking-stick for silence.
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