Rubies ripped from altar cloths Leered a-down her rich attire; Her
mad shoes were scarlet moths In a rose of fire.
A. T. Quiller-Couch.
From the briskness of the street, with its lamps aglitter in the
lingering May evening, O'Neill entered to the sober gloom and the
restless echoes of the great studio. He had come to hate the place of
late. The high poise of its walls, like the sides of a well, the pale
shine of the north light in the roof, the lumber of naked marble and
formal armor and the rest, peopling its shadows, were like a tainted
atmosphere to him; they embarrassed the lungs of his mind. Only the
name of friendship exacted these visits from him; Regnault, dying
where he had worked, was secure against desertion.
Buscarlet opened the door to him, his eyes wide and bewildered behind
his spectacles.
"How is he?" asked O'Neill curtly, entering the great room.
"Ill," answered the other. "Very ill, so that one cannot tell whether
he sleeps or wakes. There should be a nun here to nurse him, only--"
O'Neill nodded. The sick man's bed was set in the centre of the great
room, shielded from the draughts of the door by a tall screen of gilt
leather. From behind this screen, a shaded lamp by the bedside made
an island of soft radiance in the darkness.
They went together past the screen and stopped to look at Regnault.
He was lying on his back, with closed eyes, and his keen aquiline
face upturned to the pallor of the "light" in the roof. The white
hair tumbled on the pillow, and the long, beautiful hands that lay on
the coverlet were oddly pathetic in contrast to the potency of the
unconscious face. Even in sleep it preserved its cast of high
assurance, its note of ideals outworn and discounted. It was the face
of a man who had found a bitter answer for most of life's questions.
By the bed sat Truelove, his servant, ex-corporal of dragoons. He
rose noiselessly as O'Neill approached.
"No change, sir," he reported. "Talked a bit, an hour ago. Mr.
Buscarlet was then 'ere."
"Any attacks?" asked O'Neill.
"One, sir, but I 'ad the amyl under 'is nose at the first gasp, an'
'e came round all right."
"Good," said O'Neill. "You go and get some supper now, Truelove. I'll
attend to everything till you get back."
The corporal bowed and went forthwith. O'Neill set the capsules out
on the table to be easily accessible, and joined Buscarlet by the
great fireplace at the end of the room, whence he could keep watch on
the still profile that showed against the gold of the screen. From
without there came the blurred noises of the Paris street, mingled
and blended in a single hum, as though life were laying siege to that
quiet chamber.
Buscarlet was eager to talk. He was a speciously amiable little man,
blonde and plump, a creature of easy emotions, prone to panic and
tears.
"Ah, he talked indeed!" he said, as soon as O'Neill was seated. "At
first I thought: 'This is delirium. He is returning to the age of his
innocence.' But his eyes, as he looked at me, were wise and serious.
My friend, it gave me a shock."
"What did he talk about?" asked O'Neill.