A stoutish woman out of a Paris fashion-plate came trotting across the room, smiling in welcome: “Meester Rosythe!” She had black earrings flapping from each ear, and her face was white, with a streak of scarlet for lips. She took the critic by his two hands, and the critic, laughing, said: “Respondez, Madame! Does God bring the ladies to this place?” “Ah, surely, Meester Rosythe! The god of beautee, he breengs them to us! And the leetle god with the golden arrow, the rosy cheeks and the leetle dimple—the dimple that we make heem for two hundred dollars a piece—eh, Meester Rosythe? He breengs the ladies to us!”
The critic turned. “Madame Planchet, permit me to introduce Mr. Carpenter. He is a man of wonder, he heals pain, and does it by means of love.”
“Oh, how eenteresting! But what eef love heemself ees pain—who shall heal that, eh, Meester Carpentair?”
“O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-h!” came the moan.
Said Rosythe: “Mr. Carpenter thinks you make the ladies suffer too much. It worries him.”
“Ah, but the ladies do not mind! Pain? What ees eet? The lady who makes the groans, she cannot move, and so she ees unhappy. Also, she likes to have her own way, she ees a leetle—what you say?—spoilt. But her troubles weel pass; she weel be beautiful, and her husband weel love her more, and she weel be happy.”
“O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!” from the other room; and Madame Planchet prattled away: “I say to them, Make plenty of noises! Eet helps! No one weel be afraid, for all here are worshippers of the god of beautee—all weel bear the pains that he requires. Eh, Meester Carpentair?”
Carpenter was staring at her. I had not before seen such intensity of concentration on his face. He was trying to understand this situation, so beyond all believing.
“I weel tell you something,” said Madame Planchet, lowering her voice confidentially. “The lady what you hear—that ees Meeses T-S. You know Meester T-S, the magnate of the peectures?”
Carpenter did not say whether he knew or not.
“They come to me always, the peecture people; to me. The magician, the deputee of the god of beautee. Polly Pretty, she comes, and Dolly Dimple, she comes, and Lucy Love, she comes, and Betty Belle Bird. They come to me for the hair, and for the eyes, and for the complexion. You are a workair of miracles yourself—but can you do what I do? Can you make the skeen all new? Can you make the old young?”
“O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!”
“Mary Magna, she comes to me, and............