Strong as Death | Page 9

discover all
the qualities of the model, and to express them with that convincing
ardor which is the inspiration of true artists.
Leaning toward her, watching every movement of her face, all the tints
of her flesh, every shadow of her skin, all the expression and the
translucence of her eyes, every secret of her physiognomy, he had
become saturated with her personality as a sponge absorbs water; and,
in transferring to canvas that emanation of disturbing charm which his
eye seized, and which flowed like a wave from his thought to his brush,
he was overcome and intoxicated by it, as if he had drunk deep of the
beauty of woman.
She felt that he was drawn toward her, and was amused by this game,
this victory that was becoming more and more certain, animating even
her own heart.
A new feeling gave fresh piquancy to her existence, awaking in her a
mysterious joy. When she heard him spoken of her heart throbbed
faster, and she longed to say--a longing that never passed her lips-- "He
is in love with me!" She was glad when people praised his talent, and
perhaps was even more pleased when she heard him called handsome.
When she was alone, thinking of him, with no indiscreet babble to
annoy her, she really imagined that in him she had found merely a good
friend, one that would always remain content with a cordial hand-
clasp.
Often, in the midst of a sitting, he would suddenly put down his palette
on the stool and take little Annette in his arms, kissing her tenderly on
her hair, and his eyes, while gazing at the mother, said, "It is you, not
the child, that I kiss in this way."

Occasionally Madame de Guilleroy did not bring her daughter, but
came alone. On these days he worked very little, and the time was spent
in talking.
One afternoon she was late. It was a cold day toward the end of
February. Olivier had come in early, as was now his habit whenever
she had an appointment with him, for he always hoped she would
arrive before the usual hour. While waiting he paced to and fro,
smoking, and asking himself the question that he was surprised to find
himself asking for the hundredth time that week: "Am I in love?" He
did not know, never having been really in love. He had had his caprices,
certainly, some of which had lasted a long time, but never had he
mistaken them for love. To-day he was astonished at the emotion that
possessed him.
Did he love her? He hardly desired her, certainly, never having
dreamed of the possibility of possessing her. Heretofore, as soon as a
woman attracted him he had desired to make a conquest of her, and had
held out his hand toward her as if to gather fruit, but without feeling his
heart affected profoundly by either her presence or her absence.
Desire for Madame de Guilleroy hardly occurred to him; it seemed to
be hidden, crouching behind another and more powerful feeling, which
was still uncertain and hardly awakened. Olivier had believed that love
began with reveries and with poetic exaltations. But his feeling, on the
contrary, seemed to come from an indefinable emotion, more physical
than mental. He was nervous and restless, as if under the shadow of
threatening illness, though nothing painful entered into this fever of the
blood which by contagion stirred his mind also. He was quite aware
that Madame de Guilleroy was the cause of his agitation; that it was
due to the memories she left him and to the expectation of her return.
He did not feel drawn to her by an impulse of his whole being, but he
felt her always near him, as if she never had left him; she left to him
something of herself when she departed-- something subtle and
inexpressible. What was it? Was it love? He probed deep in his heart in
order to see, to understand. He thought her charming, but she was not at
all the type of ideal woman that his blind hope had created. Whoever

calls upon love has foreseen the moral traits and physical charms of her
who will enslave him; and Madame de Guilleroy, although she pleased
him infinitely, did not appear to him to be that woman.
But why did she thus occupy his thought, above all others, in a way so
different, so unceasing? Had he simply fallen into the trap set by her
coquetry, which he had long before understood, and, circumvented by
his own methods, was he now under the influence of that special
fascination which gives to women the desire to please?
He paced here and there, sat down, sprang up, lighted cigarettes and
threw