Strong as Death | Page 7

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