Strong as Death
Strong as DeathPART ICHAPTER ICHAPTER IICHAPTER IIICHAPTER IVPART IICHAPTER ICHAPTER IICHAPTER IIICHAPTER IVCHAPTER VCHAPTER VICopyright
Strong as Death
Guy de Maupassant
PART I
CHAPTER I
A DUEL OF HEARTSBroad daylight streamed down into the vast studio through a
skylight in the ceiling, which showed a large square of dazzling
blue, a bright vista of limitless heights of azure, across which
passed flocks of birds in rapid flight. But the glad light of
heaven hardly entered this severe room, with high ceilings and
draped walls, before it began to grow soft and dim, to slumber
among the hangings and die in the portieres, hardly penetrating to
the dark corners where the gilded frames of portraits gleamed like
flame. Peace and sleep seemed imprisoned there, the peace
characteristic of an artist's dwelling, where the human soul has
toiled. Within these walls, where thought abides, struggles, and
becomes exhausted in its violent efforts, everything appears weary
and overcome as soon as the energy of action is abated; all seems
dead after the great crises of life, and the furniture, the
hangings, and the portraits of great personages still unfinished on
the canvases, all seem to rest as if the whole place had suffered
the master's fatigue and had toiled with him, taking part in the
daily renewal of his struggle. A vague, heavy odor of paint,
turpentine, and tobacco was in the air, clinging to the rugs and
chairs; and no sound broke the deep silence save the sharp short
cries of the swallows that flitted above the open skylight, and the
dull, ceaseless roar of Paris, hardly heard above the roofs.
Nothing moved except a little cloud of smoke that rose
intermittently toward the ceiling with every puff that Olivier
Bertin, lying upon his divan, blew slowly from a cigarette between
his lips.With gaze lost in the distant sky, he tried to think of a new
subject for a painting. What should he do? As yet he did not know.
He was by no means resolute and sure of himself as an artist, but
was of an uncertain, uneasy spirit, whose undecided inspiration
ever hesitated among all the manifestations of art. Rich,
illustrious, the gainer of all honors, he nevertheless remained, in
these his later years, a man who did not know exactly toward what
ideal he had been aiming. He had won thePrixof Rome, had been the defender of
traditions, and had evoked, like so many others, the great scenes
of history; then, modernizing his tendencies, he had painted living
men, but in a way that showed the influence of classic memories.
Intelligent, enthusiastic, a worker that clung to his changing
dreams, in love with his art, which he knew to perfection, he had
acquired, by reason of the delicacy of his mind, remarkable
executive ability and great versatility, due in some degree to his
hesitations and his experiments in all styles of his art. Perhaps,
too, the sudden admiration of the world for his works, elegant,
correct, and full of distinctions, influenced his nature and
prevented him from becoming what he naturally might have been.
Since the triumph of his first success, the desire to please always
made him anxious, without his being conscious of it; it influenced
his actions and weakened his convictions. This desire to please was
apparent in him in many ways, and had contributed much to his
glory.His grace of manner, all his habits of life, the care he
devoted to his person, his long-standing reputation for strength
and agility as a swordsman and an equestrian, had added further
attractions to his steadily growing fame. After hisCleopatra, the first picture that had
made him illustrious, Paris suddenly became enamored of him,
adopted him, made a pet of him; and all at once he became one of
those brilliant, fashionable artists one meets in the Bois, for
whose presence hostesses maneuver, and whom the Institute welcomes
thenceforth. He had entered it as a conqueror, with the approval of
all Paris.Thus Fortune had led him to the beginning of old age,
coddling and caressing him.Under the influence of the beautiful day, which he knew was
glowing without, Bertin sought a poetic subject. He felt somewhat
dreamy, however, after his breakfast and his cigarette; he pondered
awhile, gazing into space, in fancy sketching rapidly against the
blue sky the figures of graceful women in the Bois or on the
sidewalk of a street, lovers by the water—all the pleasing fancies
in which his thoughts reveled. The changing images stood out
against the bright sky, vague and fleeting in the hallucination of
his eye, while the swallows, darting through space in ceaseless
flight, seemed trying to efface them as if with strokes of a
pen.He found nothing. All these half-seen visions resembled
things that he had already done; all the women appeared to be the
daughters or the sisters of those that had already been born of his
artistic fancy; and the vague fear, that had haunted him for a
year, that he had lost the power to create, had made the round of
all subjects and exhausted his inspiration, outlined itself
distinctly before this review of his work—this lack of power to
dream anew, to discover the unknown.He arose quietly to look among his unfinished sketches,
hoping to find something that would inspire him with a new
idea.Still puffing at his cigarette, he proceeded to turn over the
sketches, drawings, and rough drafts that he kept in a large old
closet; but, soon becoming disgusted with this vain quest, and
feeling depressed by the lassitude of his spirits, he tossed away
his cigarette, whistled a popular street-song, bent down and picked
up a heavy dumb-bell that lay under a chair. Having raised with the
other hand a curtain that draped a mirror, which served him in
judging the accuracy of a pose, in verifying his perspectives and
testing the truth, he placed himself in front of it and began to
swing the dumb-bell, meanwhile looking intently at
himself.He had been celebrated in the studios for his strength; then,
in the gay world, for his good looks. But now the weight of years
was making him heavy. Tall, with broad shoulders and full chest, he
had acquired the protruding stomach of an old wrestler, although he
kept up his fencing every day and rode his horse with assiduity.
His head was still remarkable and as handsome as ever, although in
a style different from that of his earlier days. His thick and
short white hair set off the black eyes beneath heavy gray
eyebrows, while his luxuriant moustache—the moustache of an old
soldier—had remained quite dark, and it gave to his countenance a
rare characteristic of energy and pride.Standing before the mirror, with heels together and body
erect, he went through the usual movements with the two iron balls,
which he held out at the end of his muscular arm, watching with a
complacent expression its evidence of quiet power.But suddenly, in the glass, which reflected the whole studio,
he saw one of the portieres move; then appeared a woman's head—only
a head, peeping in. A voice behind him asked:"Anyone here?""Present!" he responded promptly, turning around. Then,
throwing his dumb-bell on the floor, he hastened toward the door
with an appearance of youthful agility that was slightly
affected.A woman entered attired in a light summer costume. They shook
hands."You were exercising, I see," said the lady."Yes," he replied; "I was playing peacock, and allowed myself
to be surprised."The lady laughed, and continued:"Your concierge's lodge was vacant, and as I know you are
always alone at this hour I came up without being
announced."He looked at her."Heavens, how beautiful you are! What chic!""Yes, I have a new frock. Do you think it
pretty?""Charming, and perfectly harmonious. We can certainly say
that nowadays it is possible to give expression to the lightest
textiles."He walked around her, gently touching the material of the
gown, adjusting its folds with the tips of his fingers, like a man
that knows a woman's toilet as the modiste knows it, having all his
life employed his artist's taste and his athlete's muscles in
depicting with slender brush changing and delicate fashions, in
revealing feminine grace enclosed within a prison of velvet and
silk, or hidden by snowy laces. He finished his scrutiny by
declaring: "It is a great success, and it becomes you
perfectly!"The lady allowed herself to be admired, quite content to be
pretty and to please him.No longer in her first youth, but still beautiful, not very
tall, somewhat plump, but with that freshness which lends to a
woman of forty an appearance of having only just reached full
maturity, she seemed like one of those roses that flourish for an
indefinite time up to the moment when, in too full a bloom, they
fall in an hour.Beneath her blonde hair she possessed the shrewdness to
preserve all the alert and youthful grace of those Parisian women
who never grow old; who carry within themselves a surprising vital
force, an indomitable power of resistance, and who remain for
twenty years triumphant and indestructible, careful above all
things of their bodies and ever watchful of their
health.She raised her veil and murmured:"Well, you do not kiss me!""I have been smoking.""Pooh!" said the lady. Then, holding up her face, she added,
"So much the worse!"Their lips met.He took her parasol and divested her of her spring jacket
with the prompt, swift movement indicating familiarity with this
service. As she seated herself on the divan, he asked with an air
of interest:"Is all going well with your husband?""Very well; he must be making a speech in the House at this
very moment.""Ah! On what, pray?""Oh—no doubt on beets or on rape-seed oil, as
usual!"Her husband, the Comte de Guilleroy, deputy from the Eure,
made a special study of all questions of agricultural
interest.Perceiving in one corner a sketch that she did not recognize,
the lady walked across the studio, asking, "What is
that?""A pastel that I have just begun—the portrait of the
Princesse de Ponteve.""You know," said the lady gravely, "that if you go back to
painting portraits of women I shall close your studio. I know only
too well to what that sort of thing leads!""Oh, but I do not make twice a portrait of Any!" was the
answer."I hope not, indeed!"She examined the newly begun pastel sketch with the air of a
woman that understands the technic of art. She stepped back,
advanced, made a shade of her hand, sought the place where the best
light fell on the sketch, and finally expressed her
satisfaction."It is very good. You succeed admirably with pastel
work.""Do you think so?" murmured the flattered
artist."Yes; it is a most delicate art, needing great distinction of
style. It cannot be handled by masons in the art of
painting."For twelve years the Countess had encouraged the painter's
leaning toward the distinguished in art, opposing his occasional
return to the simplicity of realism; and, in consideration of the
demands of fashionable modern elegance, she had tenderly urged him
toward an ideal of grace that was slightly affected and
artificial."What is the Princess like?" she asked.He was compelled to give her all sorts of details—those
minute details in which the jealous and subtle curiosity of women
delights, passing from remarks upon her toilet to criticisms of her
intelligence.Suddenly she inquired: "Does she flirt with
you?"He laughed, and declared that she did not.Then, putting both hands on the shoulders of the painter, the
Countess gazed fixedly at him. The ardor of her questioning look
caused a quiver in the pupils of her blue eyes, flecked with almost
imperceptible black points, like tiny ink-spots.Again she murmured: "Truly, now, she is not a
flirt?""No, indeed, I assure you!""Well, I am quite reassured on another account," said the
Countess. "You never will love anyone but me now. It is all over
for the others. It is too late, my poor dear!"The painter experienced that slight painful emotion which
touches the heart of middle-aged men when some one mentions their
age; and he murmured: "To-day and to-morrow, as yesterday, there
never has been in my life, and never will be, anyone but you,
Any."She took him by the arm, and turning again toward the divan
made him sit beside her."Of what were you thinking?" she asked."I am looking for a subject to paint.""What, pray?""I don't know, you see, since I am still seeking
it.""What have you been doing lately?"He was obliged to tell her of all the visits he had received,
about all the dinners and soirees he had attended, and to repeat
all the conversations and chit-chat. Both were really interested in
all these futile and familiar details of fashionable life. The
little rivalries, the flirtations, either well known or suspected,
the judgments, a thousand times heard and repeated, upon the same
persons, the same events and opinions, were bearing away and
drowning both their minds in that troubled and agitated stream
called Parisian life. Knowing everyone in all classes of society,
he as an artist to whom all doors were open, she as the elegant
wife of a Conservative deputy, they were experts in that sport of
brilliant French chatter, amiably satirical, banal, brilliant but
futile, with a certain shibboleth which gives a particular and
greatly envied reputation to those whose tongues have become supple
in this sort of malicious small talk."When are you coming to dine?" she asked
suddenly."Whenever you wish. Name your day.""Friday. I shall have the Duchesse de Mortemain, the
Corbelles, and Musadieu, in honor of my daughter's return—she is
coming this evening. But do not speak of it, my friend. It is a
secret.""Oh, yes, I accept. I shall be charmed to see Annette again.
I have not seen her in three years.""Yes, that is true. Three years!"Though Annette, in her earliest years, had been brought up in
Paris in her parents' home, she had become the object of the last
and passionate affection of her grandmother, Madame Paradin, who,
almost blind, lived all the year round on her son-in-law's estate
at the castle of Roncieres, on the Eure. Little by little, the old
lady had kept the child with her more and more, and as the De
Guilleroys passed almost half their time in this domain, to which a
variety of interests, agricultural and political, called them
frequently, it ended in taking the little girl to Paris on
occasional visits, for she herself preferred the free and active
life of the country to the cloistered life of the
city.For three years she had not visited Paris even once, the
Countess having preferred to keep her entirely away from it, in
order that a new taste for its gaieties should not be awakened in
her before the day fixed for her debut in society. Madame de
Guilleroy had given her in the country two governesses, with
unexceptionable diplomas, and had visited her mother and her
daughter more frequently than before. Moreover, Annette's sojourn
at the castle was rendered almost necessary by the presence of the
old lady.Formerly, Olivier Bertin had passed six weeks or two months
at Roncieres every year; but in the past three years rheumatism had
sent him to watering-places at some distance, which had so much
revived his love for Paris that after his return he could not bring
himself to leave it.As a matter of custom, the young girl should not have
returned home until autumn, but her father had suddenly conceived a
plan for her marriage, and sent for her that she might meet
immediately the Marquis de Farandal, to whom he wished her to be
betrothed. But this plan was kept quite secret, and Madame de
Guilleroy had told only Olivier Bertin of it, in strict
confidence."Then your husband's idea is quite decided upon?" said he at
last."Yes; I even think it a very happy idea."Then they talked of other things.She returned to the subject of painting, and wished to make
him decide to paint a Christ. He opposed the suggestion, thinking
that there was already enough of them in the world; but she
persisted, and grew impatient in her argument."Oh, if I knew how to draw I would show you my thought: it
should be very new, very bold. They are taking him down from the
cross, and the man who has detached the hands has let drop the
whole upper part of the body. It has fallen upon the crowd below,
and they lift up their arms to receive and sustain it. Do you
understand?"Yes, he understood; he even thought the conception quite
original; but he held himself as belonging to the modern style, and
as his fair friend reclined upon the divan, with one daintily-shod
foot peeping out, giving to the eye the sensation of flesh gleaming
through the almost transparent stocking, he said: "Ah, that is what
I should paint! That is life—a woman's foot at the edge of her
skirt! Into that subject one may put everything—truth, desire,
poetry. Nothing is more graceful or more charming than a woman's
foot; and what mystery it suggests: the hidden limb, lost yet
imagined beneath its veiling folds of drapery!"Sitting on the floor,a la
Turque, he seized her shoe and drew it off, and
the foot, coming out of its leather sheath, moved about quickly,
like a little animal surprised at being set free."Isn't that elegant, distinguished, and material—more
material than the hand? Show me your hand, Any!"She wore long gloves reaching to the elbow. In order to
remove one she took it by the upper edge and slipped it down
quickly, turning it inside out, as one would skin a snake. The arm
appeared, white, plump, round, so suddenly bared as to produce an
idea of complete and bold nudity.She gave him her hand, which drooped from her wrist. The
rings sparkled on her white fingers, and the narrow pink nails
seemed like amorous claws protruding at the tips of that little
feminine paw.Olivier Bertin handled it tenderly and admiringly. He played
with the fingers as if they were live toys, while
saying:"What a strange thing! What a strange thing! What a pretty
little member, intelligent and adroit, which executes whatever one
wills—books, laces, houses, pyramids, locomotives, pastry, or
caresses, which last is its pleasantest function."He drew off the rings one by one, and as the wedding-ring
fell in its turn, he murmured smilingly:"The law! Let us salute it!""Nonsense!" said the Countess, slightly wounded.Bertin had always been inclined to satirical banter, that
tendency of the French to mingle irony with the most serious
sentiments, and he had often unintentionally made her sad, without
knowing how to understand the subtle distinctions of women, or to
discern the border of sacred ground, as he himself said. Above all
things it vexed her whenever he alluded with a touch of familiar
lightness to their attachment, which was an affair of such long
standing that he declared it the most beautiful example of love in
the nineteenth century. After a silence, she inquired:"Will you take Annette and me to the varnishing-day
reception?""Certainly."Then she asked him about the best pictures to be shown in the
next exposition, which was to open in a fortnight.Suddenly, however, she appeared to recollect something she
had forgotten."Come, give me my shoe," she said. "I am going
now."He was playing dreamily with the light shoe, turning it over
abstractedly in his hands. He leaned over, kissed the foot, which
appeared to float between the skirt and the rug, and which, a
little chilled by the air, no longer moved restlessly about; then
he slipped on the shoe, and Madame de Guilleroy, rising, approached
the table, on which were scattered papers, open letters, old and
recent, beside a painter's inkstand, in which the ink had dried.
She looked at it all with curiosity, touched the papers, and lifted
them to look underneath.Bertin approached her, saying:"You will disarrange my disorder."Without replying to this, she inquired:"Who is the gentleman that wishes to buy yourBaigneuses?""An American whom I do not know.""Have you come to an agreement about theChanteuse des rues?""Yes. Ten thousand.""You did well. It was pretty, but not exceptional. Good-by,
dear."She presented her cheek, which he brushed with a calm kiss;
then she disappeared through the portieres, saying in an
undertone:"Friday—eight o'clock. I do not wish you to go with me to the
door—you know that very well. Good-by!"When she had gone he first lighted another cigarette, then he
began to pace slowly to and fro in his studio. All the past of this
liaison unrolled itself before him. He recalled all its details,
now long remote, sought them and put them together, interested in
this solitary pursuit of reminiscences.It was at the moment when he had just risen like a star on
the horizon of artistic Paris, when the painters were monopolizing
the favor of the public, and had built up a quarter with
magnificent dwellings, earned by a few strokes of the
brush.After his return from Rome, in 1864, he had lived for some
years without success or renown; then suddenly, in 1868, he
exhibited hisCleopatra, and in
a few days was being praised to the skies by both critics and
public.In 1872, after the war, and after the death of Henri Regnault
had made for all his brethren, a sort of pedestal of glory,
aJocastea bold subject,
classed Bertin among the daring, although his wisely original
execution made him acceptable even to the Academicians. In 1873 his
first medal placed him beyond competition with hisJuive d'Alger, which he exhibited on
his return from a trip to Africa, and a portrait of the Princesse
de Salia, in 1874, made him considered by the fashionable world the
first portrait painter of his day. From that time he became the
favorite painter of Parisian women of that class, the most skilful
and ingenious interpreter of their grace, their bearing, and their
nature. In a few months all the distinguished women in Paris
solicited the favor of being reproduced by his brush. He was hard
to please, and made them pay well for that favor.After he had become the rage, and was received everywhere as
a man of the world he saw one day, at the Duchesse de Mortemain's
house, a young woman in deep mourning, who was just leaving as he
entered, and who, in this chance meeting in a doorway, dazzled him
with a charming vision of grace and elegance.On inquiring her name, he learned that she was the Comtesse
de Guilleroy, wife of a Normandy country squire, agriculturist and
deputy; that she was in mourning for her husband's father; and that
she was very intellectual, greatly admired, and much sought
after.Struck by the apparition that had delighted his artist's eye,
he said:"Ah, there is some one whose portrait I should paint
willingly!"This remark was repeated to the young Countess the next day;
and that evening Bertin received a little blue-tinted note,
delicately perfumed, in a small, regular handwriting, slanting a
little from left to right, which said:"MONSIEUR:"The Duchesse de Mortemain, who has just left my house, has
assured me that you would be disposed to make, from my poor face,
one of your masterpieces. I would entrust it to you willingly if I
were certain that you did not speak idly, and that you really see
in me something that you could reproduce and idealize."Accept, Monsieur, my sincere regards."ANNE DE GUILLEROY."He answered this note, asking when he might present himself
at the Countess's house, and was very simply invited to breakfast
on the following Monday.It was on the first floor of a large and luxurious modern
house in the Boulevard Malesherbes. Traversing a large salon with
blue silk walls, framed in white and gold, the painter was shown
into a sort of boudoir hung with tapestries of the last century,
light and coquettish, those tapestriesa la
Watteau, with their dainty coloring and graceful
figures, which seem to have been designed and executed by workmen
dreaming of love.He had just seated himself when the Countess appeared. She
walked so lightly that he had not heard her coming through the next
room, and was surprised when he saw her. She extended her hand in
graceful welcome."And so it is true," said she, "that you really wish to paint
my portrait?""I shall be very happy to do so, Madame."Her close-fitting black gown made her look very slender and
gave her a youthful appearance though a grave air, which was
belied, however, by her smiling face, lighted up by her bright
golden hair. The Count entered, leading by the hand a little
six-year-old girl.Madame de Guilleroy presented him, saying, "My
husband."The Count was rather short, and wore no moustache; his cheeks
were hollow, darkened under the skin by his close-shaven beard. He
had somewhat the appearance of a priest or an actor; his hair was
long and was tossed back carelessly; his manner was polished, and
around the mouth two large circular lines extended from the cheeks
to the chin, seeming to have been acquired from the habit of
speaking in public.He thanked the painter with a flourish of phrases that
betrayed the orator. He had wished for a long time to have a
portrait of his wife, and certainly he would have chosen M. Olivier
Bertin, had he not feared a refusal, for he well knew that the
painter was overwhelmed with orders.It was arranged, then, with much ceremony on both sides, that
the Count should accompany the Countess to the studio the next day.
He asked, however, whether it would not be better to wait, because
of the Countess's deep mourning; but the painter declared that he
wished to translate the first impression she had made upon him, and
the striking contrast of her animated, delicate head, luminous
under the golden hair, with the austere black of her
garments.She came, then, the following day, with her husband, and
afterward with her daughter, whom the artist seated before a table
covered with picture-books.Olivier Bertin, following his usual custom, showed himself
very reserved. Fashionable women made him a little uneasy, for he
hardly knew them. He supposed them to be at once immoral and
shallow, hypocritical and dangerous, futile and embarrassing. Among
the women of the demi-monde he had had some passing adventures due
to his renown, his lively wit, his elegant and athletic figure, and
his dark and animated face. He preferred them, too; he liked their
free ways and frank speech, accustomed as he was to the gay and
easy manners of the studios and green-rooms he frequented. He went
into the fashionable world for the glory of it, but his heart was
not in it; he enjoyed it through his vanity, received
congratulations and commissions, and played the gallant before
charming ladies who flattered him, but never paid court to any. As
he did not allow himself to indulge in daring pleasantries and
spicy jests in their society, he thought them all prudes, and
himself was considered as having good taste. Whenever one of them
came to pose at his studio, he felt, in spite of any advances she
might make to please him, that disparity of rank which prevents any
real unity between artists and fashionable people, no matter how
much they may be thrown together. Behind the smiles and the
admiration which among women are always a little artificial, he
felt the indefinable mental reserve of the being that judges itself
of superior essence. This brought about in him an abnormal feeling
of pride, which showed itself in a bearing of haughty respect,
dissembling the vanity of the parvenu who is treated as an equal by
princes and princesses, who owes to his talent the honor accorded
to others by their birth. It was said of him with slight surprise:
"He is really very well bred!" This surprise, although it flattered
him, also wounded him, for it indicated a certain social
barrier.The admirable and ceremonious gravity of the painter a little
annoyed Madame de Guilleroy, who could find nothing to say to this
man, so cold, yet with a reputation for cleverness.After settling her little daughter, she would come and sit in
an armchair near the newly begun sketch, and tried, according to
the artist's recommendation, to give some expression to her
physiognomy.In the midst of the fourth sitting, he suddenly ceased
painting and inquired:"What amuses you more than anything else in
life?"She appeared somewhat embarrassed."Why, I hardly know. Why this question?""I need a happy thought in those eyes, and I have not seen it
yet.""Well, try to make me talk; I like very much to
chat.""Are you gay?""Very gay.""Well, then, let us chat, Madame."He had said "Let us chat, Madame," in a very grave tone;
then, resuming his painting, he touched upon a variety of subjects,
seeking something on which their minds could meet. They began by
exchanging observations on the people that both knew; then they
talked of themselves—always the most agreeable and fascinating
subject for a chat.When they met again the next day they felt more at ease, and
Bertin, noting that he pleased and amused her, began to relate some
of the details of his artist life, allowing himself to give free
scope to his reminiscences, in a fanciful way that was peculiar to
him.Accustomed to the dignified presence of the literary lights
of the salons, the Countess was surprised by this almost wild
gaiety, which said unusual things quite frankly, enlivening them
with irony; and presently she began to answer in the same way, with
a grace at once daring and delicate.In a week's time she had conquered and charmed him by her
good humor, frankness, and simplicity. He had entirely forgotten
his prejudices against fashionable women, and would willingly have
declared that they alone had charm and fascination. As he painted,
standing before his canvas, advancing and retreating, with the
movements of a man fighting, he allowed his fancy to flow freely,
as if he had known for a long time this pretty woman, blond and
black, made of sunlight and mourning, seated before him, laughing
and listening, answering him gaily with so much animation that she
lost her pose every moment.Sometimes he would move far away from her, closing one eye,
leaning over for a searching study of his model's pose; then he
would draw very near to her to note the slightest shadows of her
face, to catch the most fleeting expression, to seize and reproduce
that which is in a woman's face beyond its more outward appearance;
that emanation of ideal beauty, that reflection of something
indescribable, that personal and intimate charm peculiar to each,
which causes her to be loved to distraction by one and not by
another.One afternoon the little girl advanced, and, planting herself
before the canvas, inquired with childish gravity:"That is mamma, isn't it?"The artist took her in his arms to kiss her, flattered by
that naïve homage to the resemblance of his work.Another day, when she had been very quiet, they suddenly
heard her say, in a sad little voice:"Mamma, I am so tired of this!"The painter was so touched by this first complaint that he
ordered a shopful of toys to be brought to the studio the following
day.Little Annette, astonished, pleased, and always thoughtful,
put them in order with great care, that she might play with them
one after another, according to the desire of the moment. From the
date of this gift, she loved the painter as little children love,
with that caressing, animal-like affection which makes them so
sweet and captivating.Madame de Guilleroy began to take pleasure in the sittings.
She was almost without amusement or occupation that winter, as she
was in mourning; so that, for lack of society and entertainments,
her chief interest was within the walls of Bertin's
studio.She was the daughter of a rich and hospitable Parisian
merchant, who had died several years earlier, and of his ailing
wife, whose lack of health kept her in bed six months out of the
twelve, and while still very young she had become a perfect
hostess, knowing how to receive, to smile, to chat, to estimate
character, and how to adapt herself to everyone; thus she early
became quite at her ease in society, and was always far-seeing and
compliant. When the Count de Guilleroy was presented to her as her
betrothed, she understood at once the advantages to be gained by
such a marriage, and, like a sensible girl, admitted them without
constraint, knowing well that one cannot have everything and that
in every situation we must strike a balance between good and
bad.Launched in the world, much sought because of her beauty and
brilliance, she was admired and courted by many men without ever
feeling the least quickening of her heart, which was as reasonable
as her mind.She possessed a touch of coquetry, however, which was
nevertheless prudent and aggressive enough never to allow an affair
to go too far. Compliments pleased her, awakened desires, fed her
vanity, provided she might seem to ignore them; and when she had
received for a whole evening the incense of this sort of homage,
she slept quietly, as a woman who has accomplished her mission on
earth. This existence, which lasted seven years, did not weary her
nor seem monotonous, for she adored the incessant excitement of
society, but sometimes she felt that she desired something
different. The men of her world, political advocates, financiers,
or wealthy idlers, amused her as actors might; she did not take
them too seriously, although she appreciated their functions, their
stations, and their titles.The painter pleased her at first because such a man was
entirely a novelty to her. She found the studio a very amusing
place, laughed gaily, felt that she, too, was clever, and felt
grateful to him for the pleasure she took in the sittings. He
pleased her, too, because he was handsome, strong, and famous, no
woman, whatever she may pretend, being indifferent to physical
beauty and glory. Flattered at having been admired by this expert,
and disposed, on her side, to think well of him, she had discovered
in him an alert and cultivated mind, delicacy, fancy, the true
charm of intelligence, and an eloquence of expression that seemed
to illumine whatever he said.A rapid friendship sprang up between them, and the hand-clasp
exchanged every day as she entered seemed more and more to express
something of the feeling in their hearts.Then, without deliberate design, with no definite
determination, she felt within her heart a growing desire to
fascinate him, and yielded to it. She had foreseen nothing, planned
nothing; she was only coquettish with added grace, as a woman
always is toward a man who pleases her more than all others; and in
her manner with him, in her glances and smiles, was that seductive
charm that diffuses itself around a woman in whose breast has
awakened a need of being loved.She said flattering things to him which meant "I find you
very agreeable, Monsieur;" and she made him talk at length in order
to show him, by her attention, how much he aroused her interest. He
would cease to paint and sit beside her; and in that mental
exaltation due to an intense desire to please, he had crises of
poetry, of gaiety or of philosophy, according to his state of mind
that day.She was merry when he was gay; when he became profound she
tried to follow his discourse, though she did not always succeed;
and when her mind wandered to other things, she appeared to listen
with so perfect an air of comprehension and such apparent enjoyment
of this initiation, that he felt his spirit exalted in noting her
attention to his words, and was touched to have discovered a soul
so delicate, open, and docile, into which thought fell like a
seed.The portrait progressed, and was likely to be good, for the
painter had reached the state of emotion that is necessary in order
to discover all the qualities of the model, and to express them
with that convincing ardor which is the inspiration of true
artists.Leaning toward her, watching every movement of her face, all
the tints of her flesh, every shadow of her skin, all the
expression and the translucence of her eyes, every secret of her
physiognomy, he had become saturated with her personality as a
sponge absorbs water; and, in transferring to canvas that emanation
of disturbing charm which his eye seized, and which flowed like a
wave from his thought to his brush, he was overcome and intoxicated
by it, as if he had drunk deep of the beauty of woman.She felt that he was drawn toward her, and was amused by this
game, this victory that was becoming more and more certain,
animating even her own heart.A new feeling gave fresh piquancy to her existence, awaking
in her a mysterious joy. When she heard him spoken of her heart
throbbed faster, and she longed to say—a longing that never passed
her lips—"He is in love with me!" She was glad when people praised
his talent, and perhaps was even more pleased when she heard him
called handsome. When she was alone, thinking of him, with no
indiscreet babble to annoy her, she really imagined that in him she
had found merely a good friend, one that would always remain
content with a cordial hand-clasp.Often, in the midst of a sitting, he would suddenly put down
his palette on the stool and take little Annette in his arms,
kissing her tenderly on her hair, and his eyes, while gazing at the
mother, said, "It is you, not the child, that I kiss in this
way."Occasionally Madame de Guilleroy did not bring her daughter,
but came alone. On these days he worked very little, and the time
was spent in talking.One afternoon she was late. It was a cold day toward the end
of February. Olivier had come in early, as was now his habit
whenever she had an appointment with him, for he always hoped she
would arrive before the usual hour. While waiting he paced to and
fro, smoking, and asking himself the question that he was surprised
to find himself asking for the hundredth time that week: "Am I in
love?" He did not know, never having been really in love. He had
had his caprices, certainly, some of which had lasted a long time,
but never had he mistaken them for love. To-day he was astonished
at the emotion that possessed him.Did he love her? He hardly desired her, certainly, never
having dreamed of the possibility of possessing her. Heretofore, as
soon as a woman attracted him he had desired to make a conquest of
her, and had held out his hand toward her as if to gather fruit,
but without feeling his heart affected profoundly by either her
presence or her absence.Desire for Madame de Guilleroy hardly occurred to him; it
seemed to be hidden, crouching behind another and more powerful
feeling, which was still uncertain and hardly awakened. Olivier had
believed that love began with reveries and with poetic exaltations.
But his feeling, on the contrary, seemed to come from an
indefinable emotion, more physical than mental. He was nervous and
restless, as if under the shadow of threatening illness, though
nothing painful entered into this fever of the blood which by
contagion stirred his mind also. He was quite aware that Madame de
Guilleroy was the cause of his agitation; that it was due to the
memories she left him and to the expectation of her return. He did
not feel drawn to her by an impulse of his whole being, but he felt
her always near him, as if she never had left him; she left to him
something of herself when she departed—something subtle and
inexpressible. What was it? Was it love? He probed deep in his
heart in order to see, to understand. He thought her charming, but
she was not at all the type of ideal woman that his blind hope had
created. Whoever calls upon love has foreseen the moral traits and
physical charms of her who will enslave him; and Madame de
Guilleroy, although she pleased him infinitely, did not appear to
him to be that woman.But why did she thus occupy his thought, above all others, in
a way so different, so unceasing? Had he simply fallen into the
trap set by her coquetry, which he had long before understood, and,
circumvented by his own methods, was he now under the influence of
that special fascination which gives to women the desire to
please?He paced here and there, sat down, sprang up, lighted
cigarettes and threw them away, and his eyes every instant looked
at the clock, whose hands moved toward the usual hour in slow,
unhurried fashion.Several times already he had almost raised the convex glass
over the two golden arrows turning so slowly, in order to push the
larger one on toward the figure it was approaching so lazily. It
seemed to him that this would suffice to make the door open, and
that the expected one would appear, deceived and brought to him by
this ruse. Then he smiled at this childish, persistent, and
unreasonable desire.At last he asked himself this question: "Could I become her
lover?" This idea seemed strange to him, indeed hardly to be
realized or even pursued, because of the complications it might
bring into his life. Yet she pleased him very much, and he
concluded: "Decidedly I am in a very strange state of
mind."The clock struck, and this reminder of the hour made him
start, striking on his nerves rather than his soul. He awaited her
with that impatience which delay increases from second to second.
She was always prompt, so that before ten minutes should pass he
would see her enter. When the ten minutes had elapsed, he felt
anxious, as at the approach of some grief, then irritated because
she had made him lose time; finally, he realized that if she failed
to come it would cause him actual suffering. What should he do?
Should he wait for her? No; he would go out, so that if, by chance,
she should arrive very late, she would find the studio
empty.He would go out, but when? What latitude should he allow her?
Would it not be better to remain and to make her comprehend, by a
few coldly polite words, that he was not one to be kept waiting.
And suppose she did not come? Then he would receive a despatch, a
card, a servant or a messenger. If she did not come, what should he
do? It would be a day lost; he could not work. Then? Well, then he
would go to seek news of her, for see her he must!It was quite true; he felt a profound, tormenting, harassing
necessity for seeing her. What did it mean? Was it love? But he
felt no mental exaltation, no intoxication of the senses; it
awakened no reverie of the soul, when he realized that if she did
not come that day he should suffer keenly.The door-bell rang on the stairway of the little hotel, and
Olivier Bertin suddenly found himself somewhat breathless, then so
joyous that he executed a pirouette and flung his cigarette high in
the air.She entered; she was alone! Immediately he was seized with a
great audacity."Do you know what I asked myself while waiting for
you?""No, indeed, I do not.""I asked myself whether I were not in love with
you?""In love with me? You must be mad!"But she smiled, and her smile said: That is very pretty; I am
glad to hear it! However, she said: "You are not serious, of
course; why do you make such a jest?""On the contrary, I am absolutely serious," he replied. "I do
not declare that I am in love with you; but I ask myself whether I
am not well on the way to become so.""What has made you think so?""My emotion when you are not here; my happiness when you
arrive."She seated herself."Oh, don't disturb yourself over anything so trifling! As
long as you sleep well and have an appetite for dinner, there will
be no danger!"He began to laugh."And if I lose my sleep and no longer eat?""Let me know of it.""And then?""I will allow you to recover yourself in peace.""A thousand thanks!"And on the theme of this uncertain love they spun theories
and fancies all the afternoon. The same thing occurred on several
successive days. Accepting his statement as a sort of jest, of no
real importance, she would say gaily on entering: "Well, how goes
your love to-day?"