The Nabob, Volume 2 | Page 2

by another hand, now that the modelling-tool had ceased to form between her and her work the bond which tends to impair the impartiality of the artist's judgment.
But it is so every year. When the studio is robbed of the latest work, when her famous name is once more at the mercy of the public's unforeseen caprice, Felicia's preoccupations--for she has then no visible object in life--stray through the empty void of her heart, of her existence as one who has turned aside from the peaceful furrow, until she is once more intent upon another task. She shuts herself up, she refuses to see anybody. One would say that she is distrustful of herself. The good Jenkins is the only one who can endure her during those crises. He even seems to take pleasure in them, as if he expected something from them. And yet God knows she is not amiable to him. Only yesterday he remained two hours with the beautiful ennui-ridden creature, who did not so much as speak a single word to him. If that is the sort of welcome she has in store for the great personage who does them the honor to dine with them--At that point the gentle Crenmitz, who has been placidly ruminating all these things and gazing at the slender toe of her tufted shoes, suddenly remembers that she has promised to make a dish of Viennese cakes for the dinner of the personage in question, and quietly leaves the studio on the tips of her little toes.
Still the rain, still the mud, still the beautiful sphinx, crouching in her seat, her eyes wandering aimlessly over the miry landscape. Of what is she thinking? What is she watching on those muddy roads, growing dim in the fading light, with that frown on her brow and that lip curled in disgust? Is she awaiting her destiny? A melancholy destiny, to have gone abroad in such weather, without fear of the darkness, of the mud.
Some one has entered the studio, a heavier step than Constance's mouse-like trot. The little servant, doubtless. And Felicia says roughly, without turning:
"Go to bed. I am not at home to any one."
"I should be very glad to speak with you if you were," a voice replied good-naturedly.
She starts, rises, and says in a softer tone, almost laughing at sight of that unexpected visitor:
"Ah! it's you, young Minerva! How did you get in?"
"Very easily. All the doors are open."
"I am not surprised. Constance has been like a madwoman ever since morning, with her dinner."
"Yes, I saw. The reception room is full of flowers. You have--?"
"Oh! a stupid dinner, an official dinner. I don't know how I ever made up my mind to it. Sit down here, beside me. I am glad to see you."
Paul sat down, a little perturbed in mind. She had never seemed so lovely to him. In the half-light of the studio, amid the confusion of objects of art, bronzes, tapestries, her pallor cast a soft light, her eyes shone like jewels, and her long, close-fitting riding habit outlined the negligent attitude of her goddess-like figure. Then her tone was so affectionate, she seemed so pleased at his call. Why had he stayed away so long? It was almost a month since she had seen him. Had they ceased to be friends, pray? He excused himself as best he could. Business, a journey. Moreover, although he had not been there, he had often talked about her, oh! very often, almost every day.
"Really? With whom?"
"With--"
He was on the point of saying: "With Aline Joyeuse," but something checked him, an indefinable sentiment, a sort of shame at uttering that name in the studio which had heard so many other names. There are some things which do not go together, although one cannot tell why. Paul preferred to answer with a falsehood which led him straight to the object of his call.
"With an excellent man upon whom you have unnecessarily inflicted great pain. Tell me, why haven't you finished the poor Nabob's bust? It was a source of great joy and great pride to him, the thought of that bust at the Salon. He relied upon it."
At the name of the Nabob she was slightly embarrassed.
"It is true," she said, "I broke my word. What do you expect? I am the slave of my whims. But it is my purpose to take it up again one of these days. See, the cloth thrown over it is all damp, so that the clay won't dry."
"And the accident? Ah! do you know, we hardly believed in that?"
"You were wrong. I never lie. A fall, a terrible crash. But the clay was fresh, I easily repaired it. Look!"
She removed the cloth with a movement of her arm; the Nabob stood forth, with his