The Nabob, Volume 2 | Page 2

stories of chin. And yet, a few Sundays ago, when the
Duc de Mora came with the superintendent of Fine Arts to see her work
at the studio, she was so happy, so proud of the praise bestowed on her,
so thoroughly delighted with her work, which she admired at a distance
as if it were 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