OUIDA PROPOSES MARRIAGE.
Even the preacher’s passion, the knowledge of his awful sacrifice,
did not rob the artist of her inspiration for work. Proceeding to the
studio, filled with treasures of brush and mallet, she found Paul, the
model, and Milton, the student.
“Any commands for me,” said Milton, with deference and respect.
“Yes,” said Ouida, “you may assist in arranging the pose.”
Milton, for a few moments, attempts to place the model in the attitude,
consistent with the conception of Ouida.
“Ah,” reflected Ouida, aloud, “if I can but tonight imprint on stone
the image that long has haunted me, I’ll wring from men the unwilling
confession that truly in my veins flows the blood of Michael Angelo.”
Her unconscious talk was interrupted by Paul, who almost sullenly said:
“I do not care to work tonight.”
“Hush!” said Ouida, “breathe not. I would not have had you fail me
tonight for a brace of kingdoms.”
She then crosses over to where Paul and Milton stood, saying to the
latter: “Nay, not thus. Let him stand and look as though with mighty
power he bears the weighty earth upon his massive shoulders. There,
that is better. Go. Leave me, Milton; I would be alone with him.”
Then, like a tigress, rapidly she set to work with mallet and chisel,
and while Paul stood motionless, scarcely daring to breathe, the idea
that filled her brain and soul began to take living shape from the
block of stone. At some length, however, she dropped her tools. They
fell upon the floor with a dull thud. She crosses over to the model;
then irresolutely retraced her steps, and threw herself upon a divan
or sofa, as in a dream. There she lies motionless, save for a heaving
breast.
Paul thinks she sleeps, and leaving his station, goes to the couch
whereon she lies, and gazes upon her with strange emotion. She still
seems unconscious of his presence.
“Had I Svengali’s power, I’d mould her to my will.” Paul clenches his
hand together, gazes passionately at the reclining figure, and slowly
moves back to his place. She arose.
“Paul, come near me,” she said, with a voice as seductive as that of a
luring siren, “and sit upon this low stool.”
This request was made by her following a flashing, unaccountable mental
freak, that filled Paul with pleased astonishment!
“I am your willing slave,” he said, as he did her bidding.
“Do you love any woman?” said Ouida.
“I dare not answer,” said the model.
“Dare not answer? Have I not asked you? What do you fear?” said the
sculptress.
“Myself,” said Paul.
“He who cannot master himself is like the beast of the field.”
“That’s what I am. What right have I to feeling, emotion?” said the
model.
“Have you no hope for the years that are to come?”
“If I have, I hide it so that none may see. I had one hope, but it was
like reaching out after a star. Do not question me concerning it. It
shall never be revealed.”
“Paul,” she said, “what think you of these men who crowd about me, like
moths about a candle, their tongues quick with the hollow mockery of
modern insipidity?”
“They are false as Judas. They drink your champagne, and then, when
drunk, tell lies about you. I’d like to cut their throats, if you but
speak.”
“I’ll let you, in a way,” she said, looking into his black eyes with a
boldness that made him breathe with a mixture of fear and delight.
“How?” said he, with almost breathless quickness.
“Paul,” she replied, “come nearer to me. You are a strong-limbed brute.
You are base born. You are poor.”
He shuddered, and was about to acquaint the woman with the story which
Lawyer Salmon had told him, but some power which controls fate and
destiny, restrained him, and he remained silent upon the point.
“If all you say is true,” he uttered, “What then?”
“Ah, Paul, you are so different to the mere puppets that cringe around
and flatter me.”
“If I were like these weaklings, I would not care to live.”
“The very contrast attracts me,” said Ouida, dreamily.
“My God!” said Paul, the truth at length dawning upon him, “can it
be possible that you condescend to give me more than a mere passing
reflection?”
“There is, Paul. Can you not see that I adore you?”
In a moment their bodies were in close embrace, he enfolding her within
his mighty and powerful grasp. After a moment, however, he put her
gently from him, and said: “You but mock me by showing me a view of
Paradise, only to snatch the entrancing picture from my eyes.”
“No,” she said, exalted through the intensity of her artistic emotion,
“I feel a strange, uncontrollable desire to own you, body and soul.”
“I fear, I dream, I dream,” said Paul, but Ouida hurried on:
“You are a giant. You could take any one of these pigmies that flutter
and buzz about me, in your arms, and could crush life completely out.
I hate them all. I would throttle, and at the same time strangle, the
indignation of society. I would bitterly enrage these dogs who fawn on
me.”
“And use me as the instrument? What, then, shall become of me?” said
Paul.
“You? Why, Paul, you shall be the central moving figure,” said Ouida.
“What care I? Use me as you will. ’Tis enough for me to know that you
but reach your hand.”
“Come to my arms then again,” she cried in the ecstacy of this novel
and entrancing emotion. “Let us revel in delight, you pauper! You dog!
You base born thing, to whom vile society would scarcely throw a crumb!”
“Oh, the delight,” said Paul, “of spurning these little creatures. A
month of such sweet vengeance, and you may have my life.”
“I’ll dress these mighty limbs of yours,” she cried. “I’ll flaunt your
very baseness in their eyes. I’ll make them crawl to you for the price
of a smile from me. They shall pay in deepest humiliation for the
privilege of adoring me from afar. We, Paul, you and I, will richly
repay society for its wrongs to us.”
She seemed now exhausted from the intensity of her feelings.
“Go now,” she said, tenderly; and without question Paul went away from
her, exalted, bewildered, astonished, uplifted, amazed, but happy, and
inwardly rejoicing at the wondrous change which had taken place in his
fortunes. Poor fool! From his dizzy height he saw not the chasm yawning
in greediness below.