Strong as Death | Page 8

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