PRINCESS AND MODEL.
Of course the Princess Olsdorf was not unknown to Paul Meyrin's
relatives. On his return from Russia, being questioned by his family on
the incidents of his journey, the painter was forced to speak of the
Olsdorfs and the hospitality he had enjoyed at Pampeln. He must needs
show them the portrait of the princess, too, as it was to be shown at
the coming exhibition.
We must therefore introduce the Meyrin family to our readers, amid whom
some of the chief scenes of the story will happen.
Some ten years before the time of which we are speaking, the family had
left Bucharest to come and live in Paris. Frantz Meyrin, Paul's elder
brother, had some skill as a violinist. He was a member of an orchestra
imported into Austria and Germany, where the concerts they gave were
much appreciated. The Roumanian artiste had accepted the offer of the
Barnum who exhibited his and his companions' talents in this country,
and that with the sole idea of settling wheresoever he saw a chance of
making his fortune, or at any rate of establishing himself well. After
playing in most of the chief towns of Europe, he came to Paris, where
the success he won determined him to stay. When he came to depend upon
himself alone, the struggle at first was a hard one, but Frantz was
energetic and laborious. Things soon improved. Before a year had passed
he had pupils enough to make him easy about the future.
Then he sent for those of his family that he had left behind in
Roumania--his old mother; his wife, Barbe; his daughter, Nadeje, a child
of five; and his young brother Paul, who had just turned fifteen.
The little girl was clever, and she was to be trained as a musician, and
Paul, who also showed aptitude, was to be a painter.
At first they all lived together in the Rue Nollet, at Batignolles;
afterward, Frantz's success as a teacher and an executant having made
its mark, they were able to take more comfortable rooms in the Rue de
Douai.
Six or eight years later Nadeje was entered as a pupil at the
Conservatoire, and Paul, under the tuition of Bouguereau, exhibited at
the Salon a portrait of a child which won an honorable mention and made
him known.
Paul had grown up into a handsome young fellow, well built and strong.
With his dark complexion, fine black eyes, and silky beard in its first
growth, it was easy to guess that he would be successful among the
women. But under this outward show of strength the young painter had a
character lacking in energy and originality. Lazy and effeminate, he was
entirely under the rule of his mother, and above all, of his
sister-in-law, Mme. Frantz Meyrin. She was the autocrat of the
household. She governed them all, her husband--a good fellow, who was
untiring in his work as a teacher and player--as well as Paul, whose
rare and feeble attempts at self-emancipation she repressed. The
violinist's wife was proud and weak about her daughter alone, in favor
of whose future everything had to give way.
Through a psychological phenomenon which, becoming commoner from day to
day, is a mark of our practical epoch, all in this family of artistes,
for Mme. Meyrin herself was an excellent musician--was tradesman-like
and prosaic--manners, dispositions, tastes, aspirations. Success was
only success with them when it brought in plenty of money. It mattered
nothing to Mme. Meyrin whether her husband had executed a piece of music
in a masterly manner, or Paul had drawn with skill a child's head. How
much had been paid for them? That was the only question, as well too,
unhappily, for Frantz and his brother as for the mistress of the
household.
While devoting themselves to their work at the time of doing it, the
musician and the painter did not linger long in these regions of high
art after they had laid aside the one his violin, the other his brush.
They did not work without taste, but they worked in the most prosaic
acceptation of the word, hastening in a sense to finish the task that
the material wants of life put upon them.
Their mode of life had its natural results in the matter of friendships
and acquaintances. Though justice was done to his talents and modesty
and tact, Frantz got no higher than being a paid musician at the houses
where he played. As much from economy as through her indifference to
society, Mme. Meyrin held few receptions. She gave in the course of a
winter three or four musical matinees, to show off her husband's pupils,
and especially her daughter.
As for the friends of the family, they numbered a dozen at most--some
countrymen of theirs, a few musicians, Armand Dumesnil, an old actor at
the Odeon, and a young woman, Mme. Daubrel, the heroine of a very
painful story.
Married when quite young to a man in a large way of business as an
export agent, an honest fellow, Marthe Daubrel, who was of a romantic
turn of mind and was often left alone by her husband, had listened to
the madrigals of a third-class writer. Thanks to her romantic
imagination and her inexperience, she had yielded to him, was about to
become a mother, and had confessed everything to her husband, who,
instead of taking a violent revenge, appealed to the law, a judicial
separation being decreed on his petition. He returned her dowry to his
adulterous wife, and emigrated, taking with him the son she had borne to
him before her fall.
Within three months' time Mme. Daubrel was delivered of a daughter, who
lived but a few weeks. Her illusions dispelled, she broke off all
intercourse with her seducer, returned to her mother, and, gentle and
resigned, speaking of her husband only with the greatest respect,
determined to expiate the past by conduct irreproachable at all points.
She lived isolated, and saw scarcely anybody but the Meyrins. She had
been one of the first pupils of Mme. Frantz when she, on first coming to
Paris, had to give lessons on the pianoforte to increase the resources
of the family. With an indulgence one would scarcely have looked for in
her, Mme. Meyrin excused, pitied the poor woman, and liked her very
much.
As for Paul, his natural idleness, his want of backbone, the
surroundings he lived amid, all had a bad influence on his talents. It
was to be feared that he would never rise to higher work than that which
had at first occupied him; that he would remain a painter, in a pleasing
fashion, of women and children, and faithful to his blue and pink
colors.
However, he made headway, and chiefly in the Russian colony.
Orders followed upon orders, and he began to be paid very fairly, to the
joy of Mme. Meyrin, who was his self-appointed steward and cashier.
Indeed, when five-and-twenty Paul was not thoroughly out of
leading-strings. He had his studio on the Boulevard de Clichy, at a
short distance from the Rue de Douai, but he still lived with his
family. His sister-in-law would not have suffered any other arrangement,
for his removal would have deprived the Meyrin household of a notable
part of its income. Mme. Frantz seemed to think that no change would
ever come.
The rule he was under, from which he dared make no effort to free
himself, determined Paul to lend an ear to the propositions to Count
Barewski one fine day. He had painted a full-length portrait of the
Countess Barewski which was not without merit, and her husband had
persuaded him that if he would accompany him to St. Petersburg he would
be received by the Russian aristocracy after a fashion that would result
in a rich harvest.
The painter lost no time in telling his family of the plan. At first his
sister-in-law Barbe had declared against it, but when Paul had explained
what he hoped would be the outcome in money of his journey she consented
to his going. Thereupon Paul had set off to Russia in company with Count
Barewski.
In an earlier chapter we have seen what a flattering reception the young
artist had at the hands of a goodly number of the Russian nobility, and
notably on the part of Prince Olsdorf; and we know what were the
consequences, for the honor of Lise Barineff's husband, of the
hospitality which he so graciously offered to Paul Meyrin in Courland.
Let us anticipate by some days the arrival of the Princess Olsdorf in
Paris, where Paul, in spite of her promise to him, had not looked to see
her so soon.
From the day after their separation the lovers had written to each other
regularly, but they could not say by post all that they thought. Made
acquainted by his mistress of the customs and practices of the Russian
Government, the painter knew that all letters, going or coming, were
stopped and read at the frontier by clerks whose discretion was more
than doubtful. They had both been forced, therefore, to write with great
care, and apt as their love made them to read between the lines of their
guardedly affectionate letters, the correspondence instead of calming
had given a sharper edge to their passion.
Two or three times the princess, it is true, had used the good offices
of one or other of her women friends to intrust them with letters in
which she could give herself rein, but Paul had found no way of
answering in the like strain; and Lise worse off than her lover, had
often tormented herself with the question whether she was still
passionately loved.
It is certain she would have doubted it somewhat could she have known in
all its details the life the artist led at Paris. In fact, though he
adored the princess, Paul had nevertheless taken up the course of his
old life; nor did he think himself unfaithful to his love in renewing on
his return the intrigues he had had at the time of his departure for
Russia.
Amid the former sweethearts of the young man was one who had played a
more important part than the others. She was one Sarah Lamber, very
pretty, a ballet-girl at the theaters of burlesque, and a well-known
model in the studios. After posing for Paul five or six times she had
taken a great fancy to him, and the painter had made her his mistress,
supposing that it would be with her as it had been with others who had
gone before her; that is, that he would rid himself of her easily when
it pleased him so to do.
He was mistaken. Sarah, a handsome bohemian, like so many others of her
class in Paris, in spite of the change which has come about of late in
the manners of the shady world--Sarah cared little about having
everything she might take a fancy to. What she did want, and for the
first time perhaps, was to be loved as she herself loved. Thanks to the
want of grit in Paul's character she had gained such an ascendency over
him that he had to steal away unknown to her when he left Paris.
He wrote to her from St. Petersburg to explain the reasons for his
journey, and as he did not foresee that he was about to be the hero of
the adventure with which our readers have been made acquainted, he had
not failed to promise Sarah that he would always love her and would
return soon.
The young woman had made up her mind to bear his absence, but she had
forgotten him so little that within twenty-four hours of his return to
Paris she was in his arms. The artist tried to resist her; but to have
repulsed Sarah he would have had to say that he loved another. He did
not dare. Besides, he was young, ardent; and the model was a superb
creature, full of fire, reminding him, though a brunette, of the
Princess Olsdorf. He kept silence, yielded; and their old relations were
begun anew.
From time to time--for instance, when a letter from Lise reached
him--Paul felt some remorse; but he dared not break off with Sarah now;
besides which, he did not think the princess would ever be able to keep
her promise of rejoining him in France.
This was the state of things when he got the telegram which told him
that in two days she would be in Paris.
At the news the painter lost his head for the moment. No doubt Lise's
coming, reawakening all his desires, gave him very great joy, but he
asked himself with terror what he was to do with Sarah. The princess
would be sure to wish to see his studio, she would make long stays
there, and as it would be practically impossible for him to shut out the
model altogether, the two women would before long be face to face. It
was easy to foresee what would happen then. Lise was not the woman to
give way; he knew by experience how little she cared about compromising
herself; on the other hand, Sarah was not a girl to complacently make
room for a rival, especially when she saw that the struggle would be
against a woman of fashion.
Paul was so troubled at the anticipation of this conflict that he could
think of nothing else to do than to tell the facts to his brother. It
was like consulting a blind man on a question of colors. Frantz knew
nothing of the A B C of passion, and consequently could not see that
difficulties of the kind submitted to him were real. He could find only
a single remedy for the evil. It was a simpleton's. The artist must
forbid the princess to come to his studio, on the plea that she would be
exposed to meet there too often people not of her world. Meanwhile Paul
would have leisure to break off gently with Sarah.
Charmed with the idea, and himself imagining none better, Frantz's
brother adopted the plan, and on the following day, scarcely at all
uneasy in his mind, he met the princess at the Great Northern Station.
We know that Lise Olsdorf had traveled alone, bringing with her no
servants, not even a lady's-maid. She wanted to be free from the moment
of her departure. On seeing Paul she sprung into his arms without care
for the onlookers, or for her countrymen who had come by the same train.
Greatly moved, the painter almost carried her to the carriage he had
waiting, and for some moments, forgetful of everything, they remained
pressed against each other, exchanging only broken words and warm
caresses.
However, they must needs return to reality and look after the luggage.
Paul wished to go alone to claim it, but the young woman would not leave
him for a moment, and there they were presently, both of them, mixed up
with the other travelers. So they passed half an hour, not impatient,
because they were with one another. At last the princess's trunks were
delivered to them and put upon an omnibus, Paul giving the address of
the Baden Hotel to the driver. Lise Olsdorf had telegraphed thither for
rooms.
Twenty minutes later they were at table, and the great Russian lady was
telling her lover how she had won her husband's consent that she should
leave St. Petersburg. When she ended by telling him that she was about
to become a mother, and that she wished to bring into the world while
near him this child, whose father he was, there was a renewal of fervid
tenderness between them.
They determined what their mode of life should be thenceforward,
beginning with the next day. Every evening they would dine together, and
when they did not remain at the hotel they would go to the theater.
Lise Olsdorf knew nothing of Paris but what she had heard from her
countrymen. She was eager to see it, leaning on Paul's arm. Then she
would keep him company in his studio, for he must work and grow famous.
And, then, he had to paint this portrait of her which she had refused to
pose for at St. Petersburg, and the idea made her thrill voluptuously.
What had seemed impossible to her in Russia was quite simple in France.
At Paris was not she his alone and entirely? What did she care now for
the world! What had she to fear? Who could say whether she would ever
return to the banks of the Neva! He must introduce her, too, to his
family. She wanted to be loved by all whom Paul loved. Oh, trust her to
charm the ladies of his family. She knew how to win a mother's heart,
she said, with an air of profound conviction; it was through her
children. Now she would only give his little niece a week to be
desperately in love with her.
Paul, who had listened to these plans with as much pride as joy, had not
the courage to protest against the long visits the princess meant to pay
him; so that next day, when she came to him in the Boulevard Clichy at
the hour she had appointed, he was all the time in a state of alarm. He
had, indeed, told Sarah that he expected some strangers, and that he
would be glad if she would not come as usual, but, all the same, he
dreaded the curiosity of the young girl, who, perhaps, would not guess
how compromising her presence there might be.
However, Sarah did not come this day, and the princess, untroubled by an
appearance that would assuredly have aroused her suspicions, could
examine at her ease the studio which the painter had spent pains in
adorning. Unhappily, the artistic things it contained were not many.
Here and there were a few indifferent pictures, presents from friends,
some sketches, some plaster casts, and, in the middle of the room, on an
easel with dark-colored drapery, the portrait of the mistress of
Pampeln.
It was what Lise Olsdorf's eyes first fell on. Full of gratitude and
love she sunk into her lover's arms, saying, passionately:
"You were waiting, were you not, to paint the other?"
"The other" was the portrait that the painter had sketched at the
chateau, and the princess had not dared to let him finish.
What most struck the artist's mistress, however, was the want of
elegance in the studio.
She took, as it were, a detailed note of what was lacking, and next day
Paul saw delivered at his rooms a superb selection of fanciful Japanese
silks.
They were accompanied by a note in these words only:
"The Princess Olsdorf to her painter in ordinary."
For a moment or two the young painter thought of refusing this present,
but he was afraid of rebuffing Lise too cruelly. As it was early and he
did not expect her before the afternoon, he sent for a neighboring
upholsterer and set to work with him.
In less than an hour the studio was transformed. The walls, distempered
in a dull gray, were hidden under brilliant hangings, artistically
draped; a thick carpet covered and made more level the rough wooden
floor, while the large sofa had assumed quite an Oriental look, with its
ample drapery of many-colored cashmere.
Paul was quite vain of his work, and was eying it proudly, scarcely
thinking of the sources of his riches, when the door opened suddenly and
admitted Sarah, whom he had forgotten altogether.
"The deuce!" she exclaimed, stopping on the threshold of the studio,
"how grand we are here. One might be at Carolus's. Have you become a
millionaire in this last twenty-four hours? Was it to give me this
surprise that you forbade me to come? That was very nice of you."
The young girl had flung her arms about Paul's neck, and he, though he
did not repulse her, could find nothing to say. But he had grown so red
and was so plainly ill at ease that the model added, quickly:
"I seem to be in the way."
"No," stammered the artist, "how can you be so foolish?--but--"
"But what? Come, speak out. Ah! this portrait. Whose is it?"
Up to this time the portrait had lain at Frantz Meyrin's. Out of
prudence Paul had left it there. He had brought it to the studio only
the day before.
"It is the Princess Olsdorf," he said, "a great Russian lady whose
husband was most kind to me in St. Petersburg."
"You never told me about it. Why? Where was this picture?"
"In Russia. It came yesterday, that I might have time to work at it
before the exhibition."
"She is a pretty woman."
"Yes; not bad."
"No doubt it was with the price of this portrait that you bought all
these fine things."
"I painted five or six pictures over there, which I was well paid for."
At this moment he heard the wheels of a carriage stopping before the
house.
Going to the window he saw it was the princess's carriage.
Returning quickly to the young girl, who was looking with a frown, as if
feeling a jealous presentiment, at the portrait of the stranger, he said
to her:
"My little Sarah, if you are a dear, good little thing, you will go now.
Here are visitors, and they had better not see so pretty a girl as you
here."
"Why so?" replied the model, coldly. "Do Carolus and Henner send me away
when visitors come?"
"I am not sending you away. I only ask you simply--"
It was too late.
There was a knock at the door, and, without waiting for an answer, the
person came in.
It was the Princess Olsdorf.
At first she did not see Sarah, and was on the point of running to Paul,
but, catching sight of this young girl, whose great black eyes were
fixed on her with a strange look, Lise at once felt instinctively that
she was in presence of a rival.
A complete change came over her face. The mistress was lost in the great
lady as she said in a patronizing and ironical tone of voice.
"A thousand pardons, Monsieur Meyrin. I thought you were alone."
"Why, madame," the artist stammered, scarcely knowing what he said, and
wishing himself buried a hundred feet deep in the ground, "it is much
the same thing as if I were. Mademoiselle is not a stranger. She is a
charming model, whom women of the best society often find in my studio,
and in those of my most eminent brother artists."
"Mademoiselle is indeed a very beautiful person, well fitted to give
inspiration to a painter," said the princess, with a smile, which stung
Sarah so deeply that she said, quickly, in a hot tone:
"Monsieur Meyrin might have added that his friends as well as himself
show regard for me."
Paul saw that things would soon be in a mess if he did not do something
to regulate them; but being little used to this sort of encounters, he
would certainly have made some new blunder, when the princess, no doubt
taking pity on him, said, going toward the door:
"My dear sir, I would not hinder you in your work. You are having a
sitting probably; I will go. I shall see you this evening. You have not
forgotten that we dine together and go to the opera afterward."
"Madame," said Paul, with a movement to hinder her going.
"No, no; it will be better so. This evening."
Without another look she went out quickly.
A few moments later the sound of the carriage wheels proved that she had
driven off.
"Why could not you hold your tongue?" said the painter to Sarah. "In
another moment you would have told the Princess Olsdorf that you are my
mistress."
"So I ought to have done," the young girl said, angrily, "since you are
her lover."
"Her lover--you are mad."
"If I am mad, I am not so blind nor such a fool as you think. I would
bet it is this fine lady that has given you all these things. That is
becoming, isn't it?"
"You don't know what you are talking about. If you are going to make
these scenes with me you had better not come here any more."
"That is it--you are turning me off. Come, swear that you are not the
lover of this woman."
Her eyes glittering, her voice threatening, she had seized the painter's
hands.
"You worry me," he said, pulling them away roughly.
"So I have guessed right," exclaimed the model. "Well, I will have my
revenge on her and on you, too. Ah, women of good society take our
lovers from us; they buy them. We shall see. This princess has a husband
somewhere or other."
"You are mistaken; she is a widow."
"You lie. In your letters you often mentioned Prince Olsdorf. No doubt
he is in Russia while his wife deceives him here; the idiot."
"Come, what can you do, when all is said? I can surely live as I like.
After all, I am free."
"Why did you take up with me again on your return? You ought to have
told me the truth."
"I had nothing to tell you. It was you who came back. I did not go to
seek you."
"And what about your letters from Russia, in which you said you loved me
still?"
Not knowing how to make an end of the scene, Paul became brutal.
"See now, Sarah, we have had enough of this," he said. "We loved one
another; we don't love one another any longer. It happens every day.
Instead of getting angry, let us remain good friends. We could not
always have gone on as we were doing, could we? Besides--I should have
had to tell you very soon--I am going to marry."
"You marry!" said Sarah, shrugging her shoulders, and not believing this
fresh lie. "You marry! The princess, perhaps. You are a scoundrel. By
heavens, your fine lady shall hear more of me. Good-bye."
And flinging open the door of the studio, the young girl rushed out.
"Ouf!" sighed the artist, flinging himself on the sofa. "That is over;
so much the better."
He sprung up again with a frown, and muttered:
"But the other one! What shall I tell her this evening? Bah, I shall
find some way of calming her."
The princess herself was to save her lover the trouble of finding this
way, for when he joined her at dinner and was very embarrassed, fearing
some reproach, she said, tenderly:
"One word only, dear, about the meeting I had in your studio this
morning. Swear that this girl is nothing to you--that you will never
receive or see her again; it is all I require of you."
"I swear it," said the painter, glad to get off so cheaply.
"Don't you feel," continued the young woman, "as I do, that there must
not be the shadow of a cloud between us, not the faintest suspicion?
Your past does not concern me; but your present is mine--wholly mine, is
not it?"
"Wholly," repeated he, drawing her to his heart.
Two hours later the artist, having the princess on his arm, was mounting
the grand staircase at the opera and taking his seat in their box.
Sarah had plainly not wasted the afternoon, for at once twenty
opera-glasses were leveled at them; the name of the great Russian lady
was whispered from stall to stall; and next day two or three of the
morning papers recorded in their notices of the theaters that among the
leaders of fashion present at the opera on the previous evening had been
noticed the beautiful Princess Olsdorf, accompanied by her painter in
ordinary, Paul Meyrin.
But these notices, between the lines of which it was so easy to read,
did not trouble the noble stranger an instant. Determined to make no
concession to public opinion, infatuated by her passion, she began with
him she loved the life apart that she had dreamed of.
Meanwhile, having full confidence in her, Prince Olsdorf, who had gone
back to Pampeln, was hunting the wolf and the boar, stopping
occasionally at Elva, the home of his tenant Soublaieff, the father of
the pretty Vera.