IN THE STUDIO.
Staggering like a drunken man, Paul Violaine descended the stairs
when his interview with Mascarin had been concluded. The sudden and
unexpected good fortune which had fallen so opportunely at his feet
had for the moment absolutely stunned him. He was now removed from a
position which had caused him to gaze with longing upon the still waters
of the Seine, to one of comparative affluence. “Mascarin,” said he to
himself, “has offered me an appointment bringing in twelve thousand
francs per annum, and proposed to give me the first month’s salary in
advance.”
Certainly it was enough to bewilder any man, and Paul was utterly dazed.
He went over all the events that had occurred during the day--the sudden
appearance of old Tantaine, with his loan of five hundred francs, and
the strange man who knew the whole history of his life, and who, without
making any conditions, had offered him a valuable situation. Paul was
in no particular hurry to get back to the Hotel de Perou, for he said to
himself that Rose could wait. A feeling of restlessness had seized
upon him. He wanted to squander money, and to have the sympathy of some
companions,--but where should he go, for he had no friends? Searching
the records of his memory, he remembered that, when poverty had first
overtaken him, he had borrowed twenty francs from a young fellow of his
own age, named Andre. Some gold coins still jingled in his pocket, and
he could have a thousand francs for the asking. Would it not add to his
importance if he were to go and pay this debt? Unluckily his creditor
lived a long distance off in the Rue de la Tour d’Auvergne. He, however,
hailed a passing cab, and was driven to Andre’s address. This young man
was only a casual acquaintance, whom Paul had picked up one day in a
small wine-shop to which he used to take Rose when he first arrived
in Paris. Andre, with whose other name Paul was unacquainted, was an
artist, and, in addition, was an ornamental sculptor, and executed
those wonderful decorations on the outside of houses in which builders
delight. The trade is not a pleasant one, for it necessitates working
at dizzy heights, on scaffolds that vibrate with every footstep,
and exposes you to the heat of summer and the frosts of winter. The
business, however, is well paid, and Andre got a good price for his
stone figures and wreaths. But all the money he earned went in the study
of the painter’s art, which was the secret desire of his soul. He
had taken a studio, and twice his pictures had been exhibited at the
_Salon_, and orders began to come in. Many of his brother artists
predicted a glorious future for him. When the cab stopped, Paul threw
the fare to the driver, and asked the clean-looking portress, who was
polishing the brasswork on the door, if M. Andre was at home.
“He is, sir,” replied the old woman, adding, with much volubility, “and
you are likely to find him in, for he has so much work; but he is such a
good and quiet young man, and so regular in his habits! I don’t believe
he owes a penny in the world; and as for drink, why he is a perfect
Anchorite. Then he has very few acquaintances,--one young lady, whose
face for a month past I have tried to see, but failed, because she wears
a veil, comes to see him, accompanied by her maid.”
“Good heavens, woman!” cried Paul impatiently, “will you tell me where
to find M. Andre?”
“Fourth floor, first door to the right,” answered the portress, angry at
being interrupted; and as Paul ran up the stairs, she muttered, “A young
chap with no manners, taking the words out of a body’s mouth like that!
Next time he comes, I’ll serve him out somehow.”
Paul found the door, with a card with the word “Andre” marked upon it
nailed up, and rapped on the panel. He heard the sound of a piece of
furniture being moved, and the jingle of rings being passed along a rod;
then a clear, youthful voice answered, “Come in!”
Paul entered, and found himself in a large, airy room, lighted by a
skylight, and exquisitely clean and orderly. Sketches and drawings were
suspended on the walls; there was a handsome carpet from Tunis, and
a comfortable lounge; a mirror in a carved frame, which would have
gladdened the heart of a connoisseur, stood upon the mantelpiece. An
easel with a picture upon it, covered with a green baize curtain, stood
in one corner. The young painter was in the centre of his studio, brush
and palette in hand. He was a dark, handsome young man, well built and
proportioned, with close-cut hair, and a curling beard flowing down over
his chest. His face was full of expression, and the energy and vigor
imprinted upon it formed a marked contrast to the appearance of
Mascarin’s _protégé_. Paul noticed that he did not wear the usual
painter’s blouse, but was carefully dressed in the prevailing fashion.
As soon as he recognized Paul, Andre came forward with extended hand.
“Ah,” said he, “I am pleased to see you, for I often wondered what had
become of you.”
Paul was offended at this familiar greeting. “I have had many worries
and disappointments,” said he.
“And Rose,” said Andre, “how is she--as pretty as ever, I suppose?”
“Yes, yes,” answered Paul negligently; “but you must forgive me for
having vanished so suddenly. I have come to repay your loan, with many
thanks.”
“Pshaw!” returned the painter, “I never thought of the matter again;
pray, do not inconvenience yourself.”
Again Paul felt annoyed, for he fancied that under the cloak of assumed
generosity the painter meant to humiliate him; and the opportunity of
airing his newly-found grandeur occurred to him.
“It was a convenience to me, certainly,” said he, “but I am all right
now, having a salary of twelve thousand francs.”
He thought that the artist would be dazzled, and that the mention of
this sum would draw from him some exclamations of surprise and envy.
Andre, however, made no reply, and Paul was obliged to wind up with the
lame conclusion, “And at my age that is not so bad.”
“I should call it superb. Should I be indiscreet in asking what you are
doing?”
The question was a most natural one, but Paul could not reply to it,
as he was entirely ignorant as to what his employment was to be, and he
felt as angry as if the painter had wantonly insulted him.
“I work for it,” said he, drawing himself up with such a strange
expression of voice and feature that Andre could not fail to notice it.
“I work too,” remarked he; “I am never idle.”
“But I have to work very hard,” returned Paul, “for I have not, like
you, a friend or protector to interest himself in me.”
Paul, who had not a particle of gratitude in his disposition, had
entirely forgotten Mascarin.
The artist was much amused by this speech. “And where do you think that
a foundling, as I am, would find a protector?”
Paul opened his eyes. “What,” said he, “are you one of those?”
“I am; I make no secret of it, hoping that there is no occasion for me
to feel shame, though there may be for grief. All my friends know this;
and I am surprised that you are not aware that I am simply a foundling
from the Hopital de Vendome. Up to twelve years of age I was perfectly
happy, and the master praised me for the knack I had of acquiring
knowledge. I used to work in the garden by day, and in the evening I
wasted reams of paper; for I had made up my mind to be an artist. But
nothing goes easily in this world, and one day the lady superintendent
conceived the idea of apprenticing me to a tanner.”
Paul, who had taken a seat on the divan in order to listen, here
commenced making a cigarette; but Andre stopped him. “Excuse me; but
will you oblige me by not smoking?”
Paul tossed the cigarette aside, though he was a little surprised,
as the painter was an inveterate smoker. “All right,” said he, “but
continue your story.”
“I will; it is a long one. I hated the tanner’s business from the
very beginning. Almost the first day an awkward workman scalded me so
severely that the traces still remain.” As he spoke he rolled up his
shirt sleeve, and exhibited a scar that covered nearly all one side
of his arm. “Horrified at such a commencement, I entreated the lady
superintendent, a hideous old woman in spectacles, to apprentice me to
some other trade, but she sternly refused. She had made up her mind that
I should be a tanner.”
“That was very nasty of her,” remarked Paul.
“It was, indeed; but from that day I made up my mind, and I determined
to run away as soon as I could get a little money together. I therefore
stuck steadily to the business, and by the end of the year, by means of
the strictest economy, I found myself master of thirty francs. This, I
thought, would do, and, with a bundle containing a change of linen, I
started on foot for Paris. I was only thirteen, but I had been gifted by
Providence with plenty of that strong will called by many obstinacy. I
had made up my mind to be a painter.”
“And you kept your vow?”
“But with the greatest difficulty. Ah! I can close my eyes and see the
place where I slept that first night I came to Paris. I was so exhausted
that I did not awake for twelve hours. I ordered a good breakfast; and
finding funds at a very low ebb, I started in search of work.”
Paul smiled. He, too, remembered _his_ first day in Paris. He was
twenty-two years of age, and had forty francs in his pocket.
“I wanted to make money--for I felt I needed it--to enable me to pursue
my studies. A stout man was seated near me at breakfast, and to him I
addressed myself.
“‘Look here,’ said I, ‘I am thirteen, and much stronger than I look. I
can read and write. Tell me how I can earn a living.’
“He looked steadily at me, and in a rough voice answered, ‘Go to the
market to-morrow morning, and try if one of the master masons, who are
on the lookout for hands, will employ you.’”
“And you went?”
“I did; and was eagerly watching the head masons, when I perceived my
stout friend coming toward me.
“‘I like the looks of you, my lad,’ he said; ‘I am an ornamental
sculptor. Do you care to learn my trade?’
“When I heard this proposal, it seemed as if Paradise was opening before
me, and I agreed with enthusiasm.”
“And how about your painting?”
“That came later on. I worked hard at it in all my hours of leisure. I
attended the evening schools, and worked steadily at my art and other
branches of education. It was a very long time before I ventured to
indulge in a glass of beer. ‘No, no, Andre,’ I would say to myself,
‘beer costs six sous; lay the money by.’ Finally, when I was earning
from eighty to a hundred francs a week, I was able to give more time to
the brush.”
The recital of this life of toil and self-denial, so different from his
own selfish and idle career, was inexpressibly mortifying to Paul; but
he felt that he was called upon to say something.
“When one has talents like yours,” said he, “success follows as a matter
of course.”
He rose to his feet, and affected to examine the sketches on the walls,
though his attention was attracted to the covered picture on the easel.
He remembered what the garrulous old portress had said about the veiled
lady who sometimes visited the painter, and that there had been some
delay in admitting him when he first knocked. Then he considered, for
whom had the painter dressed himself with such care? and why had he
requested him not to smoke? From all these facts Paul came to the
conclusion that Andre was expecting the lady’s visit, and that the
veiled picture was her portrait. He therefore determined to see it;
and with this end in view, he walked round the studio, admiring all the
paintings on the walls, maneuvering in such a manner as to imperceptibly
draw nearer to the easel.
“And this,” said he, suddenly extending his hand toward the cover, “is,
I presume, the gem of your studio?”
But Andre was by no means dull, and had divined Paul’s intention,
and grasped the young man’s outstretched hand just as it touched the
curtain.
“If I veil this picture,” said he, “it is because I do not wish it to be
seen.”
“Excuse me,” answered Paul, trying to pass over the matter as a jest,
though in reality he was boiling over with rage at the manner and tone
of the painter, and considered his caution utterly ridiculous.
“At any rate,” said he to himself, “I will lengthen out my visit, and
have a glimpse of the original instead of her picture;” and, with this
amiable resolution, he sat down by the artist’s table, and commenced an
apparently interminable story, resolved not to attend to any hints his
friend might throw out, who was glancing at the clock with the utmost
anxiety, comparing it every now and then with his watch.
As Paul talked on, he saw close to him on the table the photograph of a
young lady, and, taking advantage of the artist’s preoccupation, looked
at it.
“Pretty, very pretty!” remarked he.
At these words the painter flushed crimson, and snatching away the
photograph with some little degree of violence, thrust it between the
leaves of a book.
Andre was so evidently in a patina, that Paul rose to his feet, and for
a second or two the men looked into each other’s eyes as two adversaries
do when about to engage in a mortal duel. They knew but little of
each other, and the same chance which had brought them together
might separate them again at any moment, but each felt that the other
exercised some influence over his life.
Andre was the first to recover himself.
“You must excuse me; but I was wrong to leave so precious an article
about.”
Paul bowed with the air of a man who accepts an apology which he
considers his due; and Andre went on,--
“I very rarely receive any one except my friends; but to-day I have
broken through my rule.”
Paul interrupted him with a magniloquent wave of the hand.
“Believe me, sir,” said he, in a voice which he endeavoured to render
cutting and sarcastic, “had it not been for the imperative duty I before
alluded to, I should not have intruded.”
And with these words he left the room, slamming the door behind him.
“The deuce take the impudent fool!” muttered Andre. “I was strongly
tempted to pitch him out of the window.”
Paul was in a furious rage for having visited the studio with the kindly
desire of humiliating the painter. He could not but feel that the tables
had been turned upon himself.
“He shall not have it all his own way,” muttered he; “for I will see the
lady,” and not reflecting on the meanness of his conduct, he crossed the
street, and took up a position from which he could obtain a good view of
the house where Andre resided. It was snowing; but Paul disregarded the
inclemency of the weather in his eagerness to act the spy.
He had waited for fully half an hour, when a cab drove up. Two women
alighted from it. The one was eminently aristocratic in appearance,
while the other looked like a respectable servant. Paul drew closer;
and, in spite of a thick veil, recognized the features he had seen in
the photograph.
“Ah!” said he, “after all, Rose is more to my taste, and I will get back
to her. We will pay up Loupins, and get out of his horrible den.”