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Authors: William Horwood
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pocket-watch at frequent intervals.
“Mole, my dear old friend, are you there?” whispered Toad feebly affecting not to see him. “And you as well, Ratty? Come to me, for it is painful to open my eyes. Come nearer where I may more easily hear your familiar voices.”
Toad was surrounded by potted plants of all shapes and sizes and he held a fan of Japanese decoration and design in one hand; with the other he clung on to the comfort of a spotted handkerchief perfumed with lemon balm, a resuscitative stimulant for invalids who have a social afternoon to survive.
They went to him together, the Rat showing signs of impatience, but the Mole with much concern, for their friend did after all seem ill indeed. Toad groaned a little as they pulled up chairs to sit by him, as if the noise of the chairs’ legs scraping on the conservatory’s tiled floor was almost too much to bear.
“O!” he sighed, and, “Aah!”
‘But, Toad, you seemed in perfectly good health yesterday afternoon,” said the Mole in alarm. “What has made you ill?”
“I am not ill, dear Mole. Rather, I am composing myself and I beg you to do the same, for the Madame will commence the sitting very shortly. Pray tell me, Badger, what time is it?”
“Two minutes to three,” answered the Badger indifferently for something else had occurred to him: “You described your cousin as ‘the Madame’, Toad. You surely cannot mean —?”
“Indeed I do,” said Toad with great relish. “My family is cast far and wide in many climes and countries. My cousin, this famous artist, the Madame, is French.”
It need hardly be said that this item of information, cast up so lightly by Toad, caused confusion and consternation all about. Dealing with an English female person was one thing, but a French female was something very different, and possibly far beyond their combined capabilities. Especially if she set her chapeau at Toad.
“When you say she is French,” said the Badger very irritably “you mean she is from France, and if she is an artist that means she is from Paris, perhaps, which the world knows is chock-a-block with artists and bohemians. It was not wise, Toad, or reasonable to invite a former enemy of this realm to —”
“O, you can be impatient with me, Badger, and you can scold me if you must, but before my cousin Madame d’Albert I beg you to be courteous and kind. She is a sculptress unlike others, who sees something where those who are her inferiors see nothing. Her gifts are legion, her talents formidable, and such works as she has so far deigned to give the world are —”
“Toad,” said the Badger severely “are you making this up?”
“I certainly am not. The Madame, suspecting there was a family connection between us, wrote to me and I wrote back, idly mentioning that I was thinking of commissioning a bust of myself. Great artist that she is, she responded immediately saying that she wished to take up this challenge, and she has been kind enough to send me a copy of a magazine in which a great deal of space has been devoted to her art, and it is from that I quoted.
“Otter, pray pass the Journal to our doubting friend, or, if you will, read us a little from it to pass the time agreeably till she comes.”
The Otter was only too glad to read aloud, though the Badger and the Rat would have preferred him not to, but having found the article in question, and that part of it Toad had just quoted, he proceeded thus:
Madame d’Albert, as she modestly prefers to be known, or Countess Florentine d’Albert-Chapelle, to use the title which her celebrated marriage into one of the most ancient aristocratic French families bestowed upon her, informs us that the Spirit of Art has long moved in her veins.
It is easy to imagine the happiness with which the Badger and the others heard this welcome passage, for it seemed that she was already married, and unless the Countess wished to become a bigamist Toad was safe from her.
“Mole, my dear old friend, are you there?” whispered Toad feebly affecting not to see him. “And you as well, Ratty? Come to me, for it is painful to open my eyes. Come nearer where I may more easily hear your familiar voices.”
Toad was surrounded by potted plants of all shapes and sizes and he held a fan of Japanese decoration and design in one hand; with the other he clung on to the comfort of a spotted handkerchief perfumed with lemon balm, a resuscitative stimulant for invalids who have a social afternoon to survive.
They went to him together, the Rat showing signs of impatience, but the Mole with much concern, for their friend did after all seem ill indeed. Toad groaned a little as they pulled up chairs to sit by him, as if the noise of the chairs’ legs scraping on the conservatory’s tiled floor was almost too much to bear.
“O!” he sighed, and, “Aah!”
‘But, Toad, you seemed in perfectly good health yesterday afternoon,” said the Mole in alarm. “What has made you ill?”
“I am not ill, dear Mole. Rather, I am composing myself and I beg you to do the same, for the Madame will commence the sitting very shortly. Pray tell me, Badger, what time is it?”
“Two minutes to three,” answered the Badger indifferently for something else had occurred to him: “You described your cousin as ‘the Madame’, Toad. You surely cannot mean —?”
“Indeed I do,” said Toad with great relish. “My family is cast far and wide in many climes and countries. My cousin, this famous artist, the Madame, is French.”
It need hardly be said that this item of information, cast up so lightly by Toad, caused confusion and consternation all about. Dealing with an English female person was one thing, but a French female was something very different, and possibly far beyond their combined capabilities. Especially if she set her chapeau at Toad.
“When you say she is French,” said the Badger very irritably “you mean she is from France, and if she is an artist that means she is from Paris, perhaps, which the world knows is chock-a-block with artists and bohemians. It was not wise, Toad, or reasonable to invite a former enemy of this realm to —”
“O, you can be impatient with me, Badger, and you can scold me if you must, but before my cousin Madame d’Albert I beg you to be courteous and kind. She is a sculptress unlike others, who sees something where those who are her inferiors see nothing. Her gifts are legion, her talents formidable, and such works as she has so far deigned to give the world are —”
“Toad,” said the Badger severely “are you making this up?”
“I certainly am not. The Madame, suspecting there was a family connection between us, wrote to me and I wrote back, idly mentioning that I was thinking of commissioning a bust of myself. Great artist that she is, she responded immediately saying that she wished to take up this challenge, and she has been kind enough to send me a copy of a magazine in which a great deal of space has been devoted to her art, and it is from that I quoted.
“Otter, pray pass the Journal to our doubting friend, or, if you will, read us a little from it to pass the time agreeably till she comes.”
The Otter was only too glad to read aloud, though the Badger and the Rat would have preferred him not to, but having found the article in question, and that part of it Toad had just quoted, he proceeded thus:
Madame d’Albert, as she modestly prefers to be known, or Countess Florentine d’Albert-Chapelle, to use the title which her celebrated marriage into one of the most ancient aristocratic French families bestowed upon her, informs us that the Spirit of Art has long moved in her veins.
It is easy to imagine the happiness with which the Badger and the others heard this welcome passage, for it seemed that she was already married, and unless the Countess wished to become a bigamist Toad was safe from her.
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