Lily, it seemed, had scarcely heard her. She had taken one of the
pictures on her lap and was examining it minutely. She held it close to
her and then at a little distance. Madame Blaise stood surveying her
treasures proudly, her face lighted by a look of satisfaction at Lily’s
profound interest.
“I wonder,” said the old woman presently, “if you see what I see.”
For a moment Lily did not answer. She was still fascinated by the
pictures. At last she looked up. “Do you mean the woman is like me? Did
you see it too?”
Madame Blaise assumed a secretive expression. “Yes,” she said. “I have
known it all along ... ever since I saw you. But I never told any one. I
kept it as a secret for you.” And she spread her skinny hands in an
exhibitive gesture, full of satisfaction, of pride, even of triumph.
The likeness was unmistakable. Indeed, upon closer examination it was
nothing short of extraordinary. It might have been the Lily of ten years
earlier, when she was less heavy and opulent. The Byzantine Empress had
the same soft bronze hair, the same green-white skin, the same sensuous
red lips.
“It is like me when I was younger.”
“Very much,” observed Madame Blaise, and then with the air of an empress
bestowing a dazzling favor, she added, “I am going to give them to you.”
“But they are valuable,” protested Lily. “I can see that. They are no
ordinary paintings.” She spoke without raising her eyes, continuing all
the while to examine the pictures, first one and then the other as she
frequently examined with infinite care the reflection in her mirror in
the Rue Raynouard.
“I realize that you could not carry them home alone,” continued Madame
Blaise, ignoring her protests. “You might appear ridiculous. You might
even be arrested on suspicion. But I shall have them sent round. I must
give them to you. What would you have me do? When I die they will be
sold. I have no relatives ... no one. My sister is dead these ten years.
I have no child ... nothing. I am alone, you understand, absolutely
alone. Would you have my pictures knocking about some art dealer’s
place?”
She shook her head savagely. “No, you must have them. You cannot refuse.
It is the hand of God in the matter. I understand these things because
there is in me something of the woman of all time. The pictures are for
you. Nothing can dissuade me.”
Again the good-natured Lily was forced to yield, simply by the force of
the old woman’s crazy will. She must have sensed the fantastic, uncanny
quality of the entire affair, for she stirred uneasily and put the
Byzantine Empress on the floor, face down. The Girl in the Hat lay
across her knees, forgotten for the moment.
Madame Blaise had begun to walk up and down the room in a crazy fashion,
muttering to herself. All at once she halted again before Lily.
“It was a famous woman who sat for those pictures,” she said. “You could
never imagine who she really was.”
Vaguely, as if she had been absent from the room for a long time, Lily
replied. “No. I’m sure I have no idea. How could I? She was evidently a
great beauty.”
A look of delight swept the countenance of the old woman. “Wait!” she
cried. “Wait! I will make it easy for you. In one moment you will
understand!” And she scurried away once more into the dusty closet from
which she had brought the pictures. While she was absent Lily leaned
back in her chair closing her eyes and pressing a hand against her
forehead. For some time she remained thus and when, at last, she opened
her eyes at the sharp command of Madame Blaise she found the old woman
standing before her with the big hat of the girl in the picture drooped
over one eye.
The effect was grotesque, even horrible. Madame Blaise had arranged the
dress of black stuff so that her breasts and shoulders were exposed in
the fashion of the Girl in the Hat; but the ripe full breasts of the
girl in the picture were in the old woman sunken and withered, the color
of dusty paper; the gentle soft curve of the throat was shrunken and
flabby, and the soft glow of the face and the fresh carmine of the
caressing, sensuous lips were grotesquely simulated with hard rouge, and
powder which had caked in little channels on the wrinkled face of the
old woman. Even the bit of hair which showed beneath the big hat was
travestied horribly by dye. Madame Blaise simpered weakly in imitation
of the mysterious, youthful smile which curved the lips of the girl in
the picture.
There could be no mistake. The features were there, the same modeling,
the same indefinable spirit. Madame Blaise was the Byzantine Empress and
the Girl in the Hat. The caricature was cruel, relentless, bitter beyond
the power of imagination. Lily’s eyes widened with the horror of one who
has seen an unspeakable ghost. She trembled and the Girl in the Hat
slipped from her knee and fell with a clatter face downward upon the
Byzantine Empress.
Madame Blaise had begun to walk up and down the room with the languid
air of a mannequin. The big hat flopped as she moved. Turning her head
coyly, she said, “I have not changed. You see, I am almost the same.”
And then she fell to talking rapidly to herself, holding unearthly
conversations with men and women who stood in the dark corners of the
room among the innumerable pictures and bits of decaying bric-a-brac.
Crossing the room she passed near Lily’s chair where, halting for a
second, she bent down until her painted cheek touched Lily’s soft hair.
“You see,” she cried, pointing toward the dusty closet, “that one over
there.... He would give his life to have me.” She laughed a crazy laugh.
“But no ... not I. Never yield too easily and yield only for love. Live
only for love.” And she moved off again on her mad promenade, gibbering,
bowing and smiling into the dusty corners.
In the midst of a tête-á-tête which the old woman held with an invisible
beau whom she addressed as “Your Highness,” Lily sprang up and ran
toward the door. Opening it, she rushed through the upper hall down the
stairway into the dark tunnel below. As the outer door slammed behind
her, it shut in the sound of Madame Blaise’ cracked singing, punctuated
by peals of crazy laughter.
Lily did not stop running until she passed the gate of the little
enclosure and stood, breathless and fainting with terror, beneath the
lights of the Rue de l’Assomption.