Strong as Death | Page 2

glory.
His grace of manner, all his habits of life, the care he devoted to his
person, his long-standing reputation for strength and agility as a
swordsman and an equestrian, had added further attractions to his
steadily growing fame. After his /Cleopatra/, the first picture that had
made him illustrious, Paris suddenly became enamored of him, adopted
him, made a pet of him; and all at once he became one of those brilliant,
fashionable artists one meets in the Bois, for whose presence hostesses
maneuver, and whom the Institute welcomes thenceforth. He had
entered it as a conqueror, with the approval of all Paris.
Thus Fortune had led him to the beginning of old age, coddling and
caressing him.
Under the influence of the beautiful day, which he knew was glowing
without, Bertin sought a poetic subject. He felt somewhat dreamy,
however, after his breakfast and his cigarette; he pondered awhile,
gazing into space, in fancy sketching rapidly against the blue sky the
figures of graceful women in the Bois or on the sidewalk of a street,
lovers by the water--all the pleasing fancies in which his thoughts
reveled. The changing images stood out against the bright sky, vague
and fleeting in the hallucination of his eye, while the swallows, darting
through space in ceaseless flight, seemed trying to efface them as if
with strokes of a pen.
He found nothing. All these half-seen visions resembled things that he
had already done; all the women appeared to be the daughters or the
sisters of those that had already been born of his artistic fancy; and the
vague fear, that had haunted him for a year, that he had lost the power
to create, had made the round of all subjects and exhausted his
inspiration, outlined itself distinctly before this review of his work
--this lack of power to dream anew, to discover the unknown.

He arose quietly to look among his unfinished sketches, hoping to find
something that would inspire him with a new idea.
Still puffing at his cigarette, he proceeded to turn over the sketches,
drawings, and rough drafts that he kept in a large old closet; but, soon
becoming disgusted with this vain quest, and feeling depressed by the
lassitude of his spirits, he tossed away his cigarette, whistled a popular
street-song, bent down and picked up a heavy dumb-bell that lay under
a chair. Having raised with the other hand a curtain that draped a mirror,
which served him in judging the accuracy of a pose, in verifying his
perspectives and testing the truth, he placed himself in front of it and
began to swing the dumb- bell, meanwhile looking intently at himself.
He had been celebrated in the studios for his strength; then, in the gay
world, for his good looks. But now the weight of years was making him
heavy. Tall, with broad shoulders and full chest, he had acquired the
protruding stomach of an old wrestler, although he kept up his fencing
every day and rode his horse with assiduity. His head was still
remarkable and as handsome as ever, although in a style different from
that of his earlier days. His thick and short white hair set off the black
eyes beneath heavy gray eyebrows, while his luxuriant moustache--the
moustache of an old soldier--had remained quite dark, and it gave to his
countenance a rare characteristic of energy and pride.
Standing before the mirror, with heels together and body erect, he went
through the usual movements with the two iron balls, which he held out
at the end of his muscular arm, watching with a complacent expression
its evidence of quiet power.
But suddenly, in the glass, which reflected the whole studio, he saw
one of the portieres move; then appeared a woman's head--only a head,
peeping in. A voice behind him asked:
"Anyone here?"
"Present!" he responded promptly, turning around. Then, throwing his
dumb-bell on the floor, he hastened toward the door with an appearance
of youthful agility that was slightly affected.

A woman entered attired in a light summer costume. They shook
hands.
"You were exercising, I see," said the lady.
"Yes," he replied; "I was playing peacock, and allowed myself to be
surprised."
The lady laughed, and continued:
"Your concierge's lodge was vacant, and as I know you are always
alone at this hour I came up without being announced."
He looked at her.
"Heavens, how beautiful you are! What chic!"
"Yes, I have a new frock. Do you think it pretty?"
"Charming, and perfectly harmonious. We can certainly say that
nowadays it is possible to give expression to the lightest textiles."
He walked around her, gently touching the material of the gown,
adjusting its folds with the tips of his fingers, like a man that knows a
woman's toilet as