of his youthful widow, a charming lady, a native of Burgundy, and--if
gossip did not lie--a former model of the artist; indeed, some went so
far as to assert that her face could be seen in her late husband's
masterpiece--the figure of a young Greek slave attired as a joyous
bacchante. But her friends always denied this. Her dignified bearing,
sincere sorrow for her dead husband, and her motherly solicitude for her
daughter left no doubt as to the value of all petty talk. It was her
custom of summer evenings to walk to the pool, and with her daughter
Berenice she would sit on the broad wall and watch the moon rise, or
acknowledge the respectful salutations of the country folk with their
bran-speckled faces. In those days Villiers-le-Bel was a dull town a
half-hour from Paris on the Northern Railway, and about two miles from
the station.
The widow was not long without offers. Her usual answer was to point out
the tiny Berenice, playing in the garden with her nurse. Then a
landscape painter, one of the Barbizon group, appeared, and, as a former
associate of Rudolph Côt, and a man of means and position, his suit was
successful. To the astonishment of Villiers-le-Bel, Madame Valerie Côt
became Madame Théophile Mineur; on the day of the wedding little
Berenice--named after a particularly uncanny heroine of Poe's by his
relentless French admirer--scratched the long features of her
stepfather. The entire town accepted this as a distressing omen and it
was not deceived; Berenice Côt grew up in the likeness of a determined
young lady whose mother weakly endured her tyranny, whose new father
secretly feared her.
At the age of eighteen she had refused nearly all the young painters
between Ecouen and Domaine de Vallières; and had spent several summers
in England, and four years at a Lausanne school. She feared neither man
nor mouse, and once, when she saw a famous Polish pianist walking on his
terrace at Morges, she took him by the hand, asked for a lock of his
hair, and was not refused by the amiable virtuoso. After that Berenice
was the acknowledged leader of her class. The teachers trembled before
her sparkling, wrathful black eyes. At home she ruled the household, and
as she was an heiress no one dared to contradict her. Her contempt for
her stepfather was only matched by her impatience in the company of
young men. She pretended--so her intimates said--to loathe them.
"Frivolous idiots" was her mildest form of reproof when an ambitious boy
would trench upon her pet art theories or attempt to flirt. She called
her mother "the lamb" and her stepfather "the parrot"--he had a long
curved nose; all together she was very unlike the pattern French girl.
Her favourite lounging place was the wall, and after she had draped it
with a scarlet shawl and perched herself upon it, she was only too
happy to worry any unfortunate man who presented himself.
The night Hubert Falcroft called at Chalfontaine Mademoiselle Élise
Evergonde told him that her cousin, Madame Mineur, and Berenice had gone
in the direction of the pool. He had walked over from the station,
preferring the open air to the stuffy train. So a few vigorous steps
brought to his view mother and daughter as they slowly moved, encircling
each other's waist. The painter paused and noted the general loveliness
of the picture; the setting sun had splashed the blue basin overhead
with delicate pinks, and in the fretted edges of some high floating
cloud-fleece there was a glint of fire. The smooth grass parquet swept
gracefully to the semicircle of dark green trees, against the foliage of
which the virginal white of the gowns was transposed to an ivory tone by
the blue and green keys in sky and forest.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed, "paint in the foreground a few peacocks
languidly dragging their gorgeous tails, and you have a Watteau or a
Fragonard--no, a Monticelli! Only, Monticelli would have made the
peacocks the central motive with the women and trees as an arabesque."
He was a portraitist who solemnly believed in the principle of
decoration--character must take its chances when he painted. Falcroft
was successful with women's heads, which he was fond of depicting in
misty shadows framed by luxurious accessories. They called him the
Master of Chiffon, at Julien's; when he threw overboard his old friends
and joined the new crowd, their indignation was great. His title now was
the Ribbon Impressionist, and at the last salon of the Independents,
Falcroft had the mortification of seeing a battalion of his former
companions at anchor in front of his picture, The Lady with the Cat,
which they reviled for at least an hour. He was an American who had
lived his life long in France, and only showed race in his nervous,
brilliant technic and his fondness for bizarre subjects....
He had not stood many minutes when a young voice saluted him:--
"Ah, Monsieur Falcroft. Come, come quickly. Mamma is delighted to see
you!" His mental picture was decomposed by the repeated waving of the
famous shawl, which only came into view as Berenice turned. Hubert
regretted that she had not worn it--the peacocks could have been
exchanged for its vivid note of scarlet. Pretending not to have heard
her speech, he gravely saluted the mother and daughter. But Berenice was
unabashed.
"Mamma was wondering if you would visit us to-night, Monsieur Falcroft,
when I saw you staring at us as if we were ghosts." A burst of malicious
laughter followed.
"Berenice, Berenice," remonstrated her mother, "when will you cease such
tasteless remarks!" She blushed in her pretty matronly fashion and put
her hand on her daughter's mouth.
"Don't mind her, Madame Mineur! I like to meet a French girl with a
little unconventionality. Berenice reminds me now of an English girl--"
"Or one of your own countrywomen!" interrupted Berenice; "and
please--_Miss_, after this, I am a grown young lady." He joined in the
merriment. She was not to be resisted and he wished--no, he did not
wish--but he thought, that if he were younger, what gay days he might
have. Yet he admired her mother much more. Elaine Côt-Mineur was an
old-fashioned woman, gentle, reserved, and at the age when her beauty
had a rare autumnal quality--the very apex of its perfection; in a few
years, in a year, perhaps, the change would come and crabbed winter set
in. He particularly admired the oval of her face, her soft brown eyes,
and the harmonious contour of her head. He saw her instantly with a
painter's imagination--filmy lace must modulate about her head like a
dreamy aureole; across her figure a scarf of yellow silk; in her hands
he would paint a crystal vase, and in the vase one rose with a heart of
sulphur. And her eyes would gaze as if she saw the symbol of her
age--the days slipping away like ropes of sand from her grasp. He could
make a fascinating portrait he thought, and he said so. Instantly
another peal of irritating laughter came from Berenice:--
"Don't tell papa. He is _so_ jealous of the portrait he tried to make of
mamma last summer. You never saw it! It's awful. It's hid away behind a
lot of canvases in the atelier. It looks like a Cézanne still-life. I'll
show it to you sometime." Her mother revealed annoyance by compressing
her lips. Falcroft said nothing. They had skirted the pool in single
file, for the path was narrow and the denseness of the trees caused a
partial obscurity. When they reached the wall, the moon was rising in
the eastern sky.
"_L'heure exquise_," murmured Madame Mineur. Berenice wandered down the
road and Hubert helped her mother to the wall, where he sat beside her
and looked at her. He was a big, muscular man with shaven cheeks, dark
eyes, and plenty of tumbled hair, in which flecks of gray were showing.
He had been a classmate of Théophile Mineur, for whose talents or
personality he had never betrayed much liking. But one day at a
_déjeûner_, which had prolonged itself until evening, Mineur insisted on
his old friend--the Burgundy was old, too--accompanying him to
Villiers-le-Bel, and not without a motive. He knew Falcroft to be rich,
and he would not be sorry to see his capricious and mischievous
stepdaughter well settled. But Falcroft immediately paid court to Madame
Mineur, and Berenice had to content herself with watching him and making
fun to her stepfather of the American painter's height and gestures.
The visit had been repeated. Berenice was amused by a dinner _en ville_
and a theatre party, and then Hubert Falcroft became a friend of the
household. When Mineur was away painting, the visits were not
interrupted.
"Listen," said Madame Mineur; "I wish to speak with you seriously, my
dear friend." She made a movement as if to place her hand on his
shoulder, but his expression--his face was in the light--caused her to
transfer her plump fingers to her coiffure, which she touched
dexterously. Hubert was disappointed.
"I am listening," he answered; "is it a sermon, or consent--to that
portrait? Come, give in--Elaine." He had never called her by this name
before, and he anxiously awaited the result. But she did not relax her
grave attitude.
"You must know, Monsieur Falcroft, what anxieties we undergo about
Berenice. She is too wild for a French girl, too wild for her age--"
"Oh, let her enjoy her youth," he interrupted.
"Alas! that youth will be soon a thing of the past," she sighed.
"Berenice is past eighteen, and her father and I must consider her
future. Figure to yourself--she dislikes young men, eligible or not, and
you are the only man she tolerates."
"And I am hopelessly ineligible," he laughingly said.
"Why?" asked the mother, quietly.
"Why! Do you know that I am nearing forty? Do you see the pepper and
salt in my hair? After one passes twoscore it is time to think of the
past, not of the future. I am over the brow of the hill; I see the easy
decline of the road--it doesn't seem as long as when I climbed the other
half." He smiled, threw back his strong shoulders, and inhaled a huge
breath of air.
"Truly you are childish," she said; "you are at the best part of your
life, of your career. Yes, Théophile, my husband, who is so chary in his
praise, said that you would go far if you cared." Her low, warm voice,
with its pleading inflections, thrilled him. He took her by the wrist.
"And would it please _you_, if I went far?" She trembled.
"Not too far, dear friend--remember Berenice."
"I remember no one but you," he impatiently answered; and relaxing his
hold, he moved so that the moonlight shone on her face. She was pale. In
her eyes there were fright and hope, decision and delight. He admired
her more than ever.
"Let me paint you, Elaine, these next few weeks. It will be a surprise
for Mineur. And I shall have something to cherish. Never mind about
Berenice. She is a child. I am a middle-aged man. Between us is the
wall--of the years. Never should it be climbed. While you--"
"Be careful--Hubert. Théophile is your friend."
"He is not. I never cared for him. He dragged me out here after he had
been drinking too much, and when I saw you I could not stay away. Hear
me--I insist! Berenice is nice, but the wall is too high for her to
climb; it might prove a--"
"How do you know the wall is too steep for Berenice?" the girl cried as
she scaled the top with apish agility, where, after a few mocking steps
in the moonlight, she sank down breathless beside Hubert, and laughed so
loudly that her mother was fearful of hysteria.
"Berenice! Berenice!" she exclaimed.
"Oh, Berenice is all right, mamma. Master Hubert, I want you to paint my
portrait before papa returns--that's to be in four weeks, isn't it?" The
elder pair regarded her disconcertedly.
"Oh, you needn't look so dismal. I'll not tell tales out of school.
Hubert and mamma flirting! What a glorious jest! Isn't life a jest,
Hubert? Let's make a bargain! If you paint mamma, you paint me, also.
Then--you see--papa will not be jealous, and--and--" She was near tears
her mother felt, and she leaned over Hubert and took the girl's hand.
She grazed the long fingers of the painter, who at once caught both
feminine hands in his.
"Now I have you both," he boasted, and was shocked by a vicious tap on
the cheek--Berenice in rage pulled her left hand free. Silence ensued.
Hubert prudently began to roll another cigarette, and Madame Mineur
retreated out of the moonlight, while Berenice turned her back and soon
began to hum. The artist spoke first:
"See here, you silly Berenice, turn around! I want to talk to you like a
Dutch uncle--as we say in the United States. Of course I'll paint you.
But I begin with your mother. And if you wish me to like you better than
ever, don't say such things as you did. It hurts your--mother." His
voice dropped into its deepest bass. She faced him, and he saw the
glitter of wet eyelashes. She was charming, with her hair in disorder,
her eyes two burning points of fire.
"I beg your pardon, mamma; I beg your pardon, Hubert. I'll be good the
rest of this evening. Isn't it lovely?" She sniffed in the breeze with
dilating nostrils, and the wild look of her set him to wondering how
such a gentle mother could have such a gypsy daughter. Perhaps it was
the father--yes, the old man had been an Apache in his youth according
to the slang of the studios.
"But you must paint me as I wish, not as you will," resumed Berenice. "I
hate conventional portraits. Papa Mineur chills me with his cabinet
pictures of haughty society ladies, their faces as stiff as their
starched gowns."
"Oh, Berenice, will you never say polite things of your father?"
"Never," she defiantly replied. "He wouldn't believe me if I did. No,
Hubert, I want to pose as Ophelia. Oh, don't laugh, please!" They could
not help it, and she leaped to the grass and called out:--
"I don't mean a theatrical Ophelia, singing songs and spilling flowers;
I mean Ophelia drowned--" she threw herself on the sward, her arms
crossed on her bosom, and in the moonlight they could see her eyes
closed as if by death.
"Help me down, Hubert. That girl will go mad some day." He reached the
earth and he gave her a hand. Berenice had arisen. Sulkily she said:--
"Shall I step into the Dark Tarn of Auber and float for you? I'll make a
realistic picture, my Master Painter--who paints without imagination."
And then she darted into the shrubbery and was lost to view. Without
further speech the two regained the path and returned to the house.
II
THE CRIMSON SPLASH
When Éloise was asked by Berenice how long Monsieur Mineur would remain
away on his tour, she did not reply. Rather, she put a question herself:
why this sudden solicitude about the little-loved stepfather. Berenice
jokingly answered that she thought of slipping away to Switzerland for
a _vacance_ on her own account. Éloise, who was not agreeable looking,
viewed her charge suspiciously.
"Young lady, you are too deep for me. But you'll bear watching," she
grimly confessed. Berenice skipped about her teasingly.
"I know something, but I won't tell, unless you tell."
"What is it?"
"Will you tell?"
"Yes."
"When is he coming back, and where is he now?" she insisted.
"Your father, you half-crazy child, expects to return in a month--by the
first of June. And if you wish to wire or write him, let me know."
"Now I won't tell you _my_ secret," and she was off like a gale of wind.
Éloise shook her head and wondered.
In the atelier Hubert painted. Elaine sat on a dais, her hands folded in
her lap; about her head twisted nun's-veiling gave her the old-fashioned
quality of a Cosway miniature--the very effect he had sought. It was to
be a "pretty" affair, this picture, with its subdued lighting, the face
being the only target he aimed at; all the rest, the suave background,
the gauzy draperies, he would brush in--suggest rather than state.
"I'll paint her soul, that sensitive soul of hers which tremulously
peeps out of her eyes," he thought. Elaine was a patient subject. She
took the pose naturally and scarcely breathed during the weary sittings.
He recalled the early gossip and sought to evoke her as a professional
model. But he gave up in despair. She was hopelessly "ladylike," and to
interpret her adequately, only the decorative patterns of earlier
men--Mignard, Van Loo, Nattier, Largillière--would translate her native
delicacy.
For nearly four weeks he had laboured on the face, painting it in with
meticulous touches only to rub it out with savage disgust. To transcribe
those tranquil, liquid eyes, their expression more naïve than her
daughter's--this had proved too difficult a problem for the usually
facile technique of Falcroft. Give him a brilliant virtuoso theme and he
could handle it with some of the sweep and splendour of the early
Carolus Duran or the brutal elegance of the later Boldini. But Madame
Mineur was a pastoral. She did not express nervous gesture. She was
seldom dynamic. To "do" her in dots like the _pointillistes_ or in
touches after the manner of the earlier impressionists would be
ridiculous. Her abiding charm was her repose. She brought to him the
quiet values of an eighteenth-century eclogue--he saw her as a divinely
artificial shepherdess watching an unreal flock, while the haze of
decorative atmosphere would envelop her, with not a vestige of real life
on the canvas. Yet he knew her as a natural, lovable woman, a mother who
had suffered and would suffer because of her love for her only child.
It was a paradox, like many other paradoxes of art.
The daughter--ah! perhaps she might better suit his style. She was
admirable in her madcap carelessness and exotic colouring. Decidedly he
would paint her when this picture was finished--if it ever would be.
Berenice avoided entering the studio during these sittings. She no
longer jested with her mother about the picture, and with Hubert she
preserved such an air of dignity that he fancied he had offended her. He
usually came to Villiers-le-Bel on an early train three or four times a
week and remained at Chalfontaine until ten o'clock. Never but once had
a severe storm forced him to stay overnight. Since the episode on the
wall he had not attempted any further advances. He felt happy in the
company of Elaine, and gazing into her large eyes rested his spirit. It
was true--he no longer played with ease the rôle of a soul-hunter. His
youth had been troubled by many adventures, many foolish ones, and now
he felt a calm in the midway of his life and that desire for domestic
ease which sooner or later overtakes all men. He fancied himself
painting Elaine on just such tranquil summer afternoons under a soft
light. And oh! the joys of long walks, discreet gossip, and dinners at a
well-served table with a few chosen friends. Was he, after all, longing
for the flesh-pots of the philistine--he, Hubert Falcroft, who had
patrolled the boulevards like other sportsmen of midnight!
At last the picture began to glow with that inner light he had so
patiently pursued. Elaine Mineur looked at him from the canvas with
veiled sweetness, a smile almost enigmatic lurking about her lips.
Deepen a few lines and her expression would be one of contented
sleekness. _That_ Hubert had missed by a stroke. It was in her eyes that
her chief glory abided. They were pathetic without resignation, liquid
without humidity, indescribable in colouring and form. Their full cup
and the accents which experience had graven under them were something he
had never dreamed of realizing. It was a Cosway; but a Cosway broadened
and without a hint of genteel namby-pamby or overelaborate finesse.
Hubert was fairly satisfied. Madame Mineur had little to say. During the
sittings she seldom spoke, and if their eyes met, the richness of her
glance was a compensation for her lack of loquacity. Hubert did not
complain. He was in no hurry. To be under the same roof with this
adorable woman was all that he asked.
The day after he had finished his picture, he returned to Chalfontaine
for the midday breakfast. Berenice was absent--in her room with a
headache, her mother explained. The weather was sultry. He questioned
Elaine during the meal. Had Berenice's temper improved? They passed out
to the balcony where their coffee was served, and when he lighted his
cigarette, Madame Mineur begged to be excused. She had promised Cousin
Éloise to pay some calls. He strolled over the lawn, watching the
hummocks of white clouds which piled up in architectural masses across
the southern sky. Then he remembered the portrait and mounted to the
atelier. As he put his hand on the knob of the door he thought he heard
some one weeping. Suddenly the door was pulled from his grasp and
Berenice appeared. Her hair hung on her shoulders. She was in a white
dressing-gown. Her face was red and her eyes swollen. She did not
attempt to move. Affectionately Hubert caught her in his arms and asked
about her headache.
"It is better," she answered in scarcely audible accents.
"Why, you poor child! I hope you are not going to be ill! Have you been
racing in the sun without your hat?"
"No. I haven't been out of doors since yesterday."
"What's the matter, little Berenice? Has some one been cross with her?"
She pushed him from her violently.
"Hubert Falcroft, when you treat me as a woman and not as a child--"
"But I am treating you as a woman," he said. Her dark face became
tragic. She had emerged from girlhood in a few hours. And as he held her
closer some perverse spirit entered into his soul. Her vibrating youth
and beauty forced him to gaze into her blazing eyes until he saw the
pupils contract.
"Let me go!" she panted. "Let me free! I am not a doll. Go to your
portrait and worship it. Let me free!"
"And what if I do not?" Something of her rebellious feeling filled his
veins. He felt younger, stronger, fiercer. He put his arms about her
neck and, after a silent battle, kissed her. Then she pushed by him and
disappeared. He could see nothing, after the shock of the adventure, for
some moments, and the semi-obscurity of the atelier was grateful to his
eyes. A picture stood on the easel, but it was not, he fancied, the
portrait. He went to the centre of the room where hung the cords that
controlled the curtains covering the glass roof. Then in the flood of
light he barely recognized the head of Elaine. It was on the easel, and
with a sharp pain at his heart he saw across the face a big crimson
splash.
* * * * *
III
MOON-RAYS
The dewy brightness of tangled blush roses had faded in the vague
twilight; through the aisles of the little wood leading to the pool the
light timidly flickered as Hubert and Elaine walked with the hesitating
steps of perplexed persons. They had not spoken since they left the
house--there in a few hurried words he told her of the accident and
noted with sorrow the look of anguish in her eyes. Without knowing why,
they went in the direction of the wall.
There was no moon when they reached the highroad. It would rise later,
Elaine said in her low, slightly monotonous voice. Hubert was so stunned
by the memory of his ruined picture that he forgot his earlier encounter
with Berenice--that is, in describing it he had failed to minutely
record his behaviour. But in the cool evening air his conscience became
alive and he guiltily wondered whether he dare tell his misconduct--no,
imprudence? Why not? She regarded him as a possible husband for
Berenice--but how embarrassing! He made up his mind to say nothing; when
the morrow came he would write Elaine the truth and bid her good-by. He
could not in honour continue to visit this home where resided the woman
he loved--with a jealous daughter. Why jealous? What a puzzle, and what
an absurd one! He helped Elaine to a seat on the wall and sat near her.
For several minutes neither spoke. They were again facing the pool,
which looked in the dusk like a cracked mirror.