“As you consider the wine good here, as I am enjoying myself, and as it
is fair that you should do the same, act as if it were the end of the
month.”
“Oh, no! a bargain is sacred, monsieur. Since I have been with you, I
have learned to respect myself; and if I do get drunk once a month
still, it is because I should be sick if I should stop drinking
entirely. But never mind; if the wine is good here, the women are
terribly inquisitive! prout!”
“The women are inquisitive? How do you know that?”
“Because these last few days they have done nothing but hang round me to
try to make me talk.”
“Who, pray?”
“At first it was the landlady and the servants in the inn; but when they
found that that didn’t work, there was a good-looking young woman who
came to me herself, as if by accident.”
“A lady who lives in the hotel?”
“Yes, the one with the little uncle who talks all the time.”
“Mademoiselle Derbin?”
“Just so.”
“What did she ask you?”
“She acted as if she just happened to pass through the yard where I was;
she asked me first: ‘Are you in Monsieur Dalbreuse’s service?’
“‘Yes, mademoiselle.’”
“You should have told her, Pettermann, that you were travelling with me,
but not as my servant.”
“Why so, monsieur? I consider myself very lucky to belong to you; and as
there must always be one who does what the other says, it is right that
you should be the one to give the orders; therefore you are the master.”
“What then, Pettermann?”
“Then, that young woman--or rather that lady--continued: ‘Have you been
with Monsieur Dalbreuse long?’
“‘About two years.’
“‘He seems like a very agreeable man, Monsieur Dalbreuse?’
“‘He isn’t cross, mademoiselle.’
“‘What does he do in Paris?’
“All those questions began to tire me, and I replied rather short:
“‘He does what he chooses, mademoiselle; it doesn’t make any difference
to me.’--At that she went away. But in a minute she came skipping back,
and said to me almost in my ear, as she tried to slip a gold-piece into
my hand:
“‘He is a bachelor, isn’t he?’--I didn’t take the money, but I touched
my hat and said:
“’ Yes, mademoiselle, he is a bachelor.’--At that she began to laugh,
and went away, saying:
“‘The servant is almost as unique as the master.’--Upon my word, if she
isn’t inquisitive, I don’t know who is.”
So Mademoiselle Derbin was determined to find out who I was, what my
rank and position were in society. My silence had piqued her. But to go
so far as to ask if I were married--that was decidedly peculiar.
Pettermann believed me to be a bachelor; I had never said anything in
his presence which would lead him to suppose that I had ceased to be
one. What did it matter to that young woman whether I was married or
not? Could it be that she had taken a fancy to me? I could not believe
it; I had never said a word of love to her. So that it was probably the
whim of a coquette who desired to subject everybody to her empire. She
had known me only a fortnight. Moreover, it seemed to me that I was no
longer likely to inspire love, that no one could ever love me again.
I said all this to myself as I looked over my box of colors. But it did
not prevent me from going to Mademoiselle Derbin, for she expected me;
and even if I did attract her, that would be no reason for avoiding
her. We must leave such noble acts to the patriarchs of Genesis, whom we
are by no means tempted to imitate.
They were waiting for me. The uncle was there; he congratulated me on my
talent, and thanked me for my good-nature. Caroline was much perplexed
as to the position she should take. I begged her to act as if I were not
painting her portrait, so that there should be no affectation in the
position, and I set to work.
My model was very docile; she looked at me and smiled very affably. The
uncle walked about the room, and soon said:
“She will make a very pretty portrait, monsieur. I was painted once in
the costume of Scapin. It was an artist of great talent--I have
forgotten his name but it will come to me directly. It was at Bordeaux,
at Madame la Comtesse de Vernac’s, who entertained the leading artists
of Paris--Molé, Saint-Phal, Fleury, Dugazon. In fact, it was at her
house that I met Dugazon. Oh! the rascal! as amusing in society as he
was on the stage. You must have seen Dugazon?”
“Yes, monsieur, I think so; but I was so young that I hardly remember.
Mademoiselle, raise your head a little, if you please.”
“To return to my portrait,--the artist considered me so amusing in _Les
Fourberies de Scapin_, my face was so absurd when I came out of the
bag--You know _Les Fourberies de Scapin_?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Oh! how can you keep asking monsieur such questions, uncle? Does he
know Molière? You would do much better to see if the picture looks like
me yet.”
“Are you crazy, my dear love, to expect that it will look like you after
fifteen minutes?--So I was painted as Scapin, and it was an excellent
likeness. That wasn’t my favorite part, however; I won my triumph as
Pasquin in _Le Dissipateur_. I made them cry, monsieur, yes, I made them
cry, by the way I said: ‘The little that I possess!’ There are a great
many ways of saying that. I had heard Dugazon say it, and if you please,
monsieur, I gave it an entirely different expression: ‘The little that I
possess!’ There are some who declaim it; Dugazon always declaimed it,
but I maintain that you should simply put truth and soul into it: ‘The
little that I possess!’--And I saw tears in people’s eyes!--‘The little
that----’”
“Oh! for heaven’s sake, uncle! are you trying to make us cry too? You
distract monsieur’s attention; you will be responsible for my portrait
not looking like me.”
“Your uncle may talk, mademoiselle; I assure you that it doesn’t
interfere with my work at all.”
Caroline gave a little pout of vexation, which I would have liked to
reproduce on the ivory, because it was very becoming to her. I thought
that she wanted her uncle to leave us; but Monsieur Roquencourt had no
such intention.
After walking about the room several times, he came to watch me work,
then looked at his niece and exclaimed:
“Upon my word, Caroline has in her face, especially in her eyes, much
resemblance to Mademoiselle Lange. You did not know Mademoiselle Lange,
who used to act at the Français, did you?”
“No, monsieur.”
“Ah! Monsieur Dalbreuse, she was perhaps the one actress who had more
truth, more charm in her way of speaking than any other; and a charming
woman besides! I knew her well; she taught me to put on my rouge. It is
a very difficult thing to put on one’s rouge well; I used to daub my
face all over with it. She said to me one evening when I had just done
Gros-René--you know, Gros-René in _Le Dépit Amoureux_:
“‘La femme est, comme on dit, mon maître,
Un certain animal difficile à connaître,
Et de qui la nature est fort encline au mal;
Et comme un animal est toujours animal,
Et ne sera jamais----’”
“Oh! we have seen _Le Dépit Amoureux_, uncle! That speech isn’t the best
thing in Molière, in my opinion.”
“As I was saying, I had been playing Gros-René, and with great success,
on my word! I had made the audience laugh until they cried. Lange led me
aside after the performance, and said to me: ‘You acted like a god! you
acted divinely; but, my friend, you don’t know how to put on your rouge;
you make big daubs everywhere; that isn’t the way; you must put on a lot
under the eyes; your eyes are very bright already, but you will see how
much brighter that makes them; then, put on less and less toward the
ears, and almost none at all on the lower part of the face.’--I followed
her advice, and I gained greatly by it.”
“Uncle, weren’t you to play a game of backgammon this morning with that
Englishman who challenged you yesterday?”
“It isn’t this morning, my dear girl, but to-night that we are to play.”
“I thought that it was this morning.”
“You are mistaken.--Backgammon is a very fine game; do you play it,
Monsieur Dalbreuse?”
“A little, monsieur.”
“It was Dazincourt who taught me; he was a very fine player. I remember
that one evening we played for one of his wigs; it was the wig that he
wore in--wait a minute--a beautiful wig, and that counts for a great
deal on the stage. It was the wig he wore in----”
Caroline rose and exclaimed impatiently:
“That will do for to-day; I do not want to tire monsieur; let’s go to
drive; it is a fine day and I long for the fresh air. Uncle, will you be
good enough to fetch my bonnet?”
Monsieur Roquencourt went to fetch the bonnet, scratching his ear and
muttering:
“Strange! I can’t remember the name of the part.”
When he had left the room, Mademoiselle Derbin said to me:
“To-morrow, if you choose, we will have a sitting earlier, when my uncle
is reading the papers; for really he is terrible with his actors and his
acting. One forgets what one is doing; it seems to me that you must be
able to work better when there is no one beside you, talking; that is to
say, monsieur, unless you are afraid to be alone with me.”
She smiled as she said that; but there was a touch of sadness in her
smile. “Really,” I thought, “this young woman is able to assume every
sort of expression. Sometimes laughing, playful, mocking; sometimes
serious, thoughtful, and languishing; she is never the same for two
minutes.”--Was it art, I wondered, or was it that the different
sensations that she felt were instantly depicted upon her features? It
mattered little after all. However, I had not yet answered her question;
I felt almost embarrassed. At that moment her uncle returned with her
bonnet, crying:
“This much is certain, that I won the wig by a _carme_, which gave me
twelve points. Dazincourt jumped from his chair in vexation, and said:
‘I won’t play with you again.’”
Mademoiselle did not care to listen to any more; she took my arm, and we
left the room. She took me to drive, without even asking me if I would
like to go with them; she evidently divined that it would give me
pleasure. She was successful at divination: I was never bored with her.
The next morning I went to her uncle’s room at the hour she had
appointed; I found her alone; I had no feeling of confusion or
embarrassment, for I had no declaration to make to her; even if she had
attracted me, I should not have told her so. I was not free, and I did
not propose to deceive her; but I had nothing to fear. My heart would
never know the sensation of love again; I liked Mademoiselle Derbin’s
company, I liked her disposition, her wit, her unreserve; I did full
justice to her charms; but I was not in love with her.--I could never
love again.
We set to work at once. I labored at her portrait with pleasure; but
sometimes a cruel memory awoke in my heart; I remembered the delightful
sittings which my wife had given me. What a joy it was to me to paint
her! Ah! her smile was very sweet too, and her eyes were filled with
love for me.
When such ideas assailed me, a very perceptible change took place in my
expression, no doubt, for my model said to me for the second time:
“What on earth is the matter with you, Monsieur Dalbreuse? Don’t you
feel well?”
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
“You assumed such a melancholy expression all of a sudden! If it is a
bore to you to paint me, monsieur, there is no reason why you should go
on.”
“No, mademoiselle, on the contrary it is a great pleasure to me.”
“Oh! you say that in a very peculiar tone.”
I did not reply but went on with my work. Caroline became very serious
and did not say another word.
“Would you mind smiling a little, mademoiselle? You do not usually have
such a serious expression.”
“It’s because you say nothing to amuse me, and you yourself have
sometimes an expression--oh! mon Dieu! what an agreeable man you are!”
“I may have memories which are not very cheerful; and what I am doing at
this moment reminds me----”
“Of what?”
“Of a person whose portrait I once painted.”
“A woman?”
“Yes.”
“A woman whom you loved, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes!”
Caroline changed color and rose abruptly, saying:
“That’s enough for to-day; I won’t pose any more.”
“But, mademoiselle, we have just begun.”
“I am very sorry, but I am tired; besides, I don’t care any longer about
having my portrait painted!”
“What new whim is this?”
“Well, monsieur, if I choose to have whims----”
“I am very sorry too, but I have begun your portrait, and I want to
finish it.”
“I tell you that I don’t want a portrait; you would be obliged to keep
it, and I should like to know what good it would do you? A man doesn’t
wear a portrait. Oh, yes! in a locket sometimes, I believe.--Well, well!
now you are assuming your solemn expression again. Well, here I am,
monsieur, here I am, don’t be angry; great heaven! I will pose as long
as you wish.”
She resumed her seat. I glanced at her; she had hastily wiped her eyes,
and yet I saw tears still glistening in them. What an extraordinary
woman! What a combination of coquetry and sensibility! What on earth was
going on in her heart? I was sometimes afraid to guess.
We worked for a long time, but I made little progress with my task, for
I was absent-minded; the past and the present engrossed me in turn.
Caroline herself was thoughtful. Sometimes she talked to me about Paris,
and I divined that she was anxious to learn what my business was. I saw
no reason why I should not tell her that I was an advocate. She seemed
pleased to learn that I practised that profession. Why did she take so
much interest in my concerns? I had not addressed a word of love to her.
Our second sitting was more cheerful; we were becoming accustomed to
each other. When I sighed, she scolded me and told me to work more
carefully. When she was pensive, I begged her to smile, to play the
coquette as she did in society. Those sittings passed very quickly.
Really I could hardly recognize myself; there were times when I was
afraid that I was becoming too thoroughly accustomed to Caroline’s
company. Ernest was quite right when he urged me to paint pretty women,
in order to obtain distraction from my troubles.