"Does it not seem absurd that a man's whole life and ambition should be
overthrown by a mere passion for a woman?" he said bitterly. "Yet this
has been my case. You remember that soon after we first became
acquainted I went to study in Paris--but there, perhaps Berard has told
you?"
"No; I wish to hear the true facts," replied Hugh. "Tell me all."
"Ah! the story is not an enticing one to relate," the artist resumed,
with a subdued, feverish agitation. "There were three of us--Holt,
Glanville, and myself--and in the Quartier Latin we led a reckless
existence, with feast and jubilee one day, and starvation the next. We
were a free-and-easy trio in our _atelier_ on the Quai Montabello, happy
in to-day and heedless of to-morrow, caring nothing for those bonds of
conventionality which degrade men into money-grubs. I had freedom,
liberty, happiness, until one night at a _bal masque_ at the Bullier I
met a woman. Ah, I see you are smiling already. Well, smile on. I
would laugh were it not that I feel the pain."
There was an intense bitterness in his tone, which showed how very
keenly he felt.
"Nay," interrupted Hugh coolly, "you mistake the meaning of my smile."
"No matter; you have every reason to smile, for it was contemptible
weakness, and that weakness was mine. I had seen many women whom the
world called beauties, and I could look upon them with indifference. At
last--"
He paused; a lump rose in his throat, and his hands were clasped behind
him convulsively.
"At last," he went on, with a fierce passion--"at last I saw her--our
eyes met. It was no fancy, no boyish imagination--it was reality. I
stood before her, dumb, trembling, spellbound. I could not speak, I
could not move, the power of life seemed to have gone from me."
Again he paused--he was now standing before his friend--the bright eyes
gleamed with the intensity of his passion, his lips were quivering, and
his breast rose and fell with the emotion which the painful memory
called forth.
"Laugh, sneer, if you will," he continued wildly; "but even as I have
seen lightning strike a man dead to earth, her eyes flashed upon me, and
reft me of heart, of reason, of soul."
He paused, and drew a deep sigh.
"I was mad--mad," he went on, with suppressed emotion, "and could not
help myself. She absorbed all thought, all mind, and I was false to my
true mistress, Art. Brush and easel were forgotten that I might seek
this woman, and with my eyes drink in her beauty that filled my veins
with poison. Her features and form were the perfection of beauty. Ah!
but there--you know too well. Valerie's beauty is that of a divine
statue, and only a statue. A very goddess of loveliness, but carven in
cold stone. There is no heart, no life, no soul within. I saw this
then clearly, as I see it now, yet still I loved her--I loved her!"
He flung himself into a chair, and, leaning his elbows upon the table,
hid his face in his hands.
"Is that all?" inquired Trethowen, looking up from beneath his heavy
brows.
"No, no--would to heaven that had been all. I scarcely know how, but we
became friends. We were both poor, many of our tastes were in common,
and at length I prevailed upon her to visit our shabby _atelier_, where
I painted her portrait. It was my best work; I have done nothing to
equal it since. She was pleased with it, and favoured me. In my
madness I cared not how the favour was obtained. I was in a mad,
drunken delirium of joy, and abandoned myself to destruction. Alas! it
came. I was dashed from the threshold of paradise into the abyss of
despair. I learned that this woman whom I worshipped as an idol was no
better than the painted and powdered women who frequented the Bal
Bullier and the Moulin Rouge--that she had a lover!"
He laughed a hard, bitter laugh, and then was silent.