SATAN REBUKING SIN.
Among the many great houses in this metropolis, none were more
artistically and voluptuously arranged than the mansion of Ouida
Angelo, the sculptress. There were parlors and drawing-rooms, a study,
a library, dining room in exquisitely carved oak, while the boudoir of
the artist was a perfect dream. She had costly paintings and pieces of
marble statuary for which a monarch would almost give his crown, and
all arranged and placed with perfect artistic and poetic taste. Ouida’s
boudoir was palatial with its tiger skin rugs, couches, mirrors and
jeweled cases. Her sleeping couch was draped in richest silks, and was
as soft and as alluring as ever enticed to sleep the troubled head of a
queen.
On leaving the church, Ouida had entered her carriage, in which, by
an imperious wave of the hand, she had been driven quickly to her
residence. There, with the assistance of her sweet-faced maid, she
had disrobed and was quickly attired in a soft and clinging negligee
apparel, which women delight in, and which men cannot describe. This
done, pointing to the door, she almost fiercely said: “Go!”
The little maid stood a moment, amazed, for never before had her
mistress been so harsh, but slowly she turned and silently moved toward
the door. Ouida, quickly shamed into atonement, said: “Lucile!”
Quickly and gladly the joyous girl bounded back, and almost tearfully
said: “Is my mistress angry with me?”
“Child,” said Ouida, “I angry with you!” The great creature stooped and
kissed Lucile’s forehead. “I am troubled with the nasty world.”
Left alone, the artist paced the floor of her boudoir like a lioness
from whose breasts her cubs had been rudely torn.
“I hate them all. None can be trusted. This one seemed nobler than the
rest. I revealed more of the woman in me to him than to any creature
born. See how he repays me, my art. I could forgive him who preaches
against my life, for I have given the world the right to talk; but when
he attacks true art, the Goddess at whose shrine I worship, when he
ridicules my religion, I feel as though my heart would crack with rage.
“Bravery, thou art extinct, and there is a premium placed on public
cowardice. He attacks me from a safe place, behind the battlements
of the pulpit. I indulged in the vain hope of having won the respect
of one honest man, among the contemptible puppies by which I am
surrounded, and I find that he, too, has a narrow, putrid soul. He
wants to enhance his reputation at my expense. A vulgar woman would
horsewhip him. I cannot so commonize myself. A barbarous woman would
kill him, a bold woman would insult him. My vengeance upon him shall
not be commonplace.
“A fool, too, he is. There is no wisdom in him. Does he think he can
rob me of the affection of New York? What idiotic nonsense! Not a
thousand sermons could do that. My place in art is greater than his in
the church.
“Ah, I have it! I’ll make him supremely ridiculous. I’ll make the city
laugh at him. I’ll carve a work with him as central figure, and I’ll
christen it ‘Satan Rebuking Sin.’”
Like a woman, she laughed at the cleverness of her conceit, dressed and
took a fierce drive through Central Park.