WHO SHE WAS.
For a moment somewhat more than her profile shone upon Claude's
bewildered gaze.
"I shall see her eye to eye at last!" shouted his heart within: but
the next moment she turned away, and with two companions who came
across the same threshold, moved up the street, and, at the nearest
corner, vanished. Her companions were the American lady and the
artist. Claude wheeled, and hurried to pass around the square in the
opposite direction, and, as he reached the middle of its third side,
saw the artist hand them into the street-car, lift his hat, and return
towards the studio. The two men met at the foot of the stairs. The
Spaniard's countenance betrayed a restrained elation.
"You goin' see a picture now," he said, in a modestly triumphant tone.
"Come in," he added, as Claude would have passed the studio door.
They went in together. The Spaniard talked; Claude scarcely spoke. I
cannot repeat the conversation literally, but the facts are these: A
few evenings before, the artist had been one of the guests at a
musical party given by a lady whose name he did not mention. He
happened--he modestly believed it accidental--to be seated beside the
hostess, when a young lady--"jung Creole la-thy," he called her--who
was spending a few days with her, played the violin. The Spaniard's
delicate propriety left her also nameless; but he explained that, as
he understood, she was from the Teche. She played charmingly--"for an
amateur," he qualified: but what had struck him more than the music
was her beauty, her figure, her picturesque grace. And when he
confessed his delight in these, his hostess, seemingly on the
inspiration of the moment, said:
"Paint her picture! Paint her just so! I'll give you the order. Not a
mere portrait--a picture." And he had agreed, and the "jung" lady had
consented. The two had but just now left the studio. To-morrow a
servant would bring violin, music-rack, etc.; the ladies would follow,
and then--
"You hear music, anyhow," said the artist. That was his gentle way of
intimating that Claude was not invited to be a looker-on.
On the next day, Claude, in his nook above, with the studio below shut
from view by the curtain of his inner window, heard the ladies come.
He knows they are these two, for one voice, the elder, blooms out at
once in a gay abundance of words, and the other speaks in soft, low
tones that, before they reach his ear, run indistinguishably together.
Soon there comes the sound of tuning the violin, while the older voice
is still heard praising one thing and another, and asking careless
questions.
"I suppose that cotton cloth covers something that is to have a public
unveiling some day, doesn't it?"
Claude cannot hear the answer; the painter drops his voice even below
its usual quiet tone. But Claude knows what he must be saying; that
the cloth covers merely a portrait he is finishing of a young man who
has sat for it to please a wifeless, and, but for him, childless, and
fondly devoted father. And now he can tell by the masculine step, and
the lady's one or two lively words, that the artist has drawn away the
covering from his (Claude's) own portrait. But the lady's young
companion goes on tuning her instrument--"tink, tink, tink;" and now
the bow is drawn.
"Why, how singular!" exclaims the elder lady. "Why, my dear, come here
and see! Somebody has got your eyes! Why, he's got your whole state of
mind, a reduplication of it. And--I declare, he looks almost as good
as you do! If--I"--
The voice stops short. There is a moment's silence in which the unseen
hearer doubts not the artist is making signs that yonder window and
curtain are all that hide the picture's original, and the voice says
again,--
"I wish you'd paint my picture," and the violin sounds once more its
experimental notes.
But there are other things which Claude can neither hear, nor see, nor
guess. He cannot see that the elder lady is already wondering at, and
guardedly watching, an agitation betrayed by the younger in a tremor
of the hand that fumbles with her music-sheets and music-stand, in the
foot that trembles on the floor, in the reddened cheek, and in the
bitten lip. He may guess that the painter sits at his easel with
kindling eye; but he cannot guess that just as the elder lady is about
to say,--
"My dear, if you don't feel"--the tremor vanishes, the lips gently
set, and only the color remains. But he hears the first soft moan of
the tense string under the bow, and a second, and another; and then,
as he rests his elbows upon the table before him, and covers his face
in his trembling hands, it seems to him as if his own lost heart had
entered into that vibrant medium, and is pouring thence to heaven and
her ear its prayer of love.
Paint, artist, paint! Let your brushes fly! None can promise you she
shall ever look quite like this again. Catch the lines,--the waving
masses and dark coils of that loose-bound hair; the poise of head and
neck; the eloquent sway of the form; the folds of garments that no
longer hide, but are illumined by, the plenitude of an inner life and
grace; the elastic feet; the ethereal energy and discipline of arms
and shoulders; the supple wrists; the very fingers quivering on the
strings; the rapt face, and the love-inspired eyes.
Claude, Claude! when every bird in forest and field knows the call of
its mate, can you not guess the meaning of those strings? Must she
open those sealed lips and call your very name--she who would rather
die than call it?
He does not understand. Yet, without understanding, he answers. He
rises from his seat; he moves to the window; he will not tiptoe or
peep; he will be bold and bad. Brazenly he lifts the curtain and looks
down; and one, one only--not the artist and not the patroness of art,
but that one who would not lift her eyes to that window for all the
world's wealth--knows he is standing there, listening and looking
down. He counts himself all unseen, yet presently shame drops the
curtain. He turns away, yet stands hearkening. The music is about to
end. The last note trembles on the air. There is silence. Then someone
moves from a chair, and then the single cry of admiration and delight
from the player's companion is the player's name,--
"Marguerite Beausoleil!"
Hours afterward there sat Claude in the seat where he had sunk down
when he heard that name. The artist's visitors had made a long stay,
but at length they were gone. And now Claude, too, rose to go out. His
steps were heard below, and presently the painter's voice called
persuadingly up:--
"St. Pierre! St. Pierre! Come, see."
They stood side by side before the new work. Claude gazed in silence.
At length he said, still gazing:
"I'll buy it when 'tis finish'."
But the artist explained again that it was being painted for
Marguerite's friend.
"For what she want it?" demanded Claude. The Spaniard smiled and
intimated that the lady probably thought he could paint. "But at any
rate," he went on to say, "she seemed to have a hearty affection for
the girl herself, whom," he said, "she had described as being as good
as she looked." Claude turned and went slowly out.
When at sunset he stood under the honey-locust tree on the levee where
he was wont to find his father waiting for him, he found himself
alone. But within speaking distance he saw St. Pierre's skiff just
being drawn ashore by a ragged negro, who presently turned and came
to him, half-lifting the wretched hat that slouched about his dark
brows, and smiling.
"Sim like you done fo'got me," he said. "Don't you 'member how I use'
live at Belle Alliance? Yes, seh. I's de one what show Bonaventure de
road to Gran' Point'. Yes, seh. But I done lef' dah since Mistoo
Wallis sole de place. Yes, seh. An' when I meet up wid you papa you
nevva see a nigger so glad like I was. No, seh. An' likewise you papa.
Yes, seh. An' he ass me is I want to wuck fo' him, an' I see he
needin' he'p, an' so I tu'n in an' he'p him. Oh, yes, seh! dass mo' 'n
a week, now, since I been wuckin' fo' you papa."
They got into the skiff and pushed off, the negro alone at the oars.
"Pow'ful strong current on udder side," he said, pulling quietly
up-stream to offset the loss of way he must make presently in crossing
the rapid flood. "Mistoo Claude, I see a gen'leman dis day noon what I
ain't see' befo' since 'bout six year' an' mo'. I disremember his
name, but----"
"Tarbox?" asked Claude with sudden interest.
"Yes, seh. Dass it! Tah-bawx. Sim like any man ought to 'member dat
name. Him an' you papa done gone down de canal. Yes, seh; in a
pirogue. He come in a big hurry an' say how dey got a big crevasse up
de river on dat side, an' he want make you papa see one man what
livin' on Lac Cataouaché. Yes, seh. An you papa say you fine you
supper in de pot. An' Mistoo Tah-bawx he say he want you teck one
hoss an' ride up till de crevasse an' you fine one frien' of yose
yondah, one ingineer; an' he say--Mistoo Tah-bawx--how he 'low to meet
up wid you at you papa' house to-morrow daylight. Yes, seh; Mistoo
Tah-bawx; yes, seh."