"Beautiful! beautiful!" exclaimed Ernest Lavalle, as, throwing himself back in his chair, he contemplated, with eyes half shut, a lovely countenance that smiled on him from a canvas, to which he had just added a few hesitating touches. It was but a sketch—little more than outline and dead coloring, and a misty haze seemed spread over the face, so that it looked vision-like and intangible. The young painter's exclamation was not addressed to his workmanship—he was not even looking at that faint image; but, through its medium, was gazing on lineaments as rare and fascinating as ever floated through a poet's or an artist's dream. Deep, lustrous blue eyes, in whose depth sincerity and feeling lay crystallized; features as regular as those of a Grecian statue; a lip melting, ripe, and dewy, half concealing, half revealing, a line of pearls; soft brown hair, descending in waves upon a neck and shoulders of satin surface and Parian firmness. Such were some of the external traits of loveliness belonging to
- "A creature not too bright and good
- For human nature's daily food,"
who had completely actualized the ideal of the young Parisian artist, into whose studio we have introduced our readers. The fair original, whose portrait is before us, was Rose d'Amour, a beautiful actress of one of the metropolitan theatres, who had just made her debut with distinguished success. There was quite a romance in her history. Of unknown parents, she had commenced her career—like the celebrated Rachel—as a street singer, and was looking forward to no more brilliant future, when her beauty, genius, and purity of character attracted the attention of a distinguished newspaper editor, by whose benevolent generosity she was enabled to prepare herself for the stage, by two or three years of assiduous study. The success of his protégée more than repaid the kind patron for his exertions and expenditure.
A word of Ernest Lavalle, and it shall suffice. He was the son of a humble vine dresser in one of the agricultural departments of France. His talent for drawing, early manifested, attracted the notice of his parish priest, whose earnest representations induced his father to send the boy to Paris, and give him the advantages afforded by the capital for students of art. In the great city, Ernest allowed none of the attractions, by which he was surrounded, to divert him from the assiduous pursuit of his beloved art. His mornings were passed in the gallery of the Louvre, his afternoons in private study, and his evenings at the academy, where he drew from casts and the living model. The only relaxation he permitted himself, was an occasional excursion in the picturesque environs of the French capital; and he always took his sketch book with him, thus making even his pleasure subservient to his studies. Two prizes obtained, for a drawing and a picture, secured for him the patronage of the academy, at whose expense he was sent to Italy, to pursue his studies in the famous galleries of Rome and Florence. He returned with a mind imbued with the beauty and majesty of the works of those great masters, whose glory will outlive the canvas and marble which achieved it, determined to win for himself a niche in the temple of Fame, or perish in his laborious efforts to obtain it. At this time he was in his twenty-second year. A vigorous constitution was his heritage; and his rounded cheek glowed with the warm color of health. His strictly classical features were enhanced by the luxuriance of his hair, which he wore flowing in its native curls, while his full beard and mustache relieved his face from the charge of effeminacy.
Ernest was yet engaged in the contemplation of the unfinished work—or rather in dreaming of the bright original—when a light tap was heard at his door. He opened it eagerly, and his poor studio was suddenly illuminated, as it were, by the radiant apparition of Rose d'Amour. She was dressed with a charming simplicity, which well became a sylph like form, that required no adventitious aid from art.
"Good morning, Monsieur Lavalle!" said the beautiful actress, cheerfully, as she dropped gracefully into the fauteuil prepared for her reception. "You find me in the best possible humor to-day, thanks to this bright morning sun, and to the success of last night. Mon Dieu! so many bouquets! you can't think! Really, the life of an artiste begins to be amusing. Don't you find it so, as a painter?"
"I confess to you, mademoiselle, I have my moments of despondency."
"With your fine talent! Think better of yourself. I hope, at least, that I have not been so unlucky as to surprise you in one of those inopportune moments."
"Ah, mademoiselle," said the painter, "if it were so, one of your smiles would dispel the cloud in a moment."
"Really!" replied the actress, gayly. "Are you quite sure there is no flattery in the remark? I am aware that flattery is an essential part of an artist's profession."
"Not of a true artist's," replied Ernest. "The aim and end of all art is truth; and he who forgets it is untrue to his high mission."
"True," said the lady. "Well, then, faites votre possible—as Napoleon said to his friend David—for I am anxious that this portrait shall be a chef-d'œuvre. I design it for a present."
"With such a subject before me," replied the painter "I could not labor more conscientiously, if the picture were designed for myself."
The sitting passed away rapidly, for the artist; and he was surprised when the lady, after consulting her watch, rose hastily, and exclaimed, "That odious rehearsal! I must leave you—but you ought to be satisfied, for I have given you two hours of my valuable time. Adieu, then, until to-morrow."
With a smile that seemed natural to her, the beautiful girl vanished, taking with her half the sunshine of the room.
The painter continued his labor of love. Indeed, so absorbed was he in his employment, that he did not notice the entrance of a visitor, until he felt a light tap on his shoulder, accompanied by the words,—
"Bravo, mon cher! You are getting on famously. That is Rose herself—as radiant as she appears on the stage, when the focus of a lorgnette has excluded all the stupid and ennuyantes figures that surround her."
The speaker was Sir Frederic Stanley, an English baronet, now some months in Paris, where he had plunged into all the gayeties of the season. He was a handsome man, of middle age, whose features bore the impress of dissipation.
"You know the original, then?" asked the painter, somewhat coldly.
"Know her! My dear fellow, I don't know any body else, as the Yankees say. Why, I have the entry of the Gaité, and pass all my evenings behind the scenes. I flatter myself—but no matter. I have taken a fancy to that picture: what do you say to a hundred louis for it?"
"It is not for me to dispose of it."
"You have succeeded so well, you wish to keep it for yourself—eh? Double the price, and let me have it!"
"Impossible, Sir Frederic. It is painted for Mlle. d'Amour herself, and she designs it for a present."
"Say no more," said the baronet, with a self-satisfied smile. "I think I could name the happy individual."
Ernest would not gratify his visitor by a question, and the latter, finding the artist reserved and distrait, suddenly recollected the races at Chantilly, and took his leave.
"Can it be possible," thought the painter, "that Rose has suffered her affections to repose on that conceited, purse-proud, elderly Englishman? O, woman! woman! how readily you barter the wealth of your heart for a handful of gold!"
Another tap at the door—another visitor! Really, Lavalle must be getting famous! This time it is a lady—a lady of surpassing loveliness—one of those well-preserved Englishwomen, who, at forty, are as attractive as at twenty. This lady was tall and stately, with elegant manners, and perhaps a thought of sadness in her expression. She gazed long and earnestly upon the portrait of Rose d'Amour.
"It is a beautiful face!" she said, at length. "And one that indicates, I should think, goodness of heart."
"She is an angel!" said the painter.
"You speak warmly, sir," said the lady, with a sad smile.
Ernest blushed, for he feared that he had betrayed his secret. The lady did not appear to notice his embarrassment, and passed to the occasion of her visit, which was to engage the young artist to paint her portrait—a task which he readily undertook, for he was pleased with, and interested in, his fair patroness. The picture was immediately commenced, and an hour fixed for a second sitting, on the next day. It was on that occasion that the fair unknown encountered the actress, and they retired in company.
The two portraits were finished at the same time, and reflected the greatest credit upon the artist. They were varnished, framed, and paid for, but the painter had received no orders for their final disposition, when, one morning, he was waited on by the two ladies, who informed him that they should call upon him the following day, when the two portraits would be presented, in his study, to the persons for whom they were designed. The artist was enjoined to place them on two separate easels,—that of the actress to stand nearest the door of the studio, and both to be concealed by a curtain until the ladies should give the signal for their exposure. The portrait of the English lady, we will here remark, had, by her request, been hitherto seen only by the artist. There was a mystery in this arrangement, which piqued, excessively, the curiosity of the painter, and he was anxious to witness the denouement.
The next day, at eleven o'clock, every thing was in readiness, and the painter awaited the solution of the mystery.
The first person who presented himself was Sir Frederic Stanley. He was very radiant.
"Congratulate me, mon cher," said he. "Read that."
Ernest took an open note from his hand, and read as follows:—
"Be at the studio of Ernest Lavalle, to-morrow, at eleven. You will there receive a present, which, if there be any truth in man's vows, will certainly delight you.
The astonishment and disappointment of Ernest was at its height, when his door opened, and the actress entered, followed by a female, closely veiled.
"You are true to your appointment, Sir Frederic," said the actress, gayly, "and your punctuality shall be rewarded."
She advanced to the farther easel, and, lifting the curtain, disclosed the features of the English lady.
"This is for you!" she said, laughing.
"My wife! by all that's wonderful!" exclaimed the baronet.
"Accompanied by the original!" said Lady Stanley, as she unveiled and advanced. "Sir Frederic! Sir Frederic! when you were amusing yourself, by paying unmeaning attentions to this young lady, I am afraid you forgot to tell her that you had a wife in England."
"I thought it unnecessary," stammered the baronet.
"How could you disturb the peace of mind of a young girl, when you knew you could not requite her affection?" continued Lady Stanley.
"It was only a flirtation, to pass the time," said Sir Frederic; "but I acknowledge it was culpable. My dear Emeline, I thank you for your present. I shall ever cherish it as my dearest possession—next to yourself."
"For you, sir," said the beautiful actress, turning to Ernest, "I cannot think of depriving you of your best effort. Take the portrait. I wish the subject were worthier." And she withdrew the curtain from her picture.
"I am ungrateful," said Ernest, in a low and tremulous tone. "Much as I prize the picture, I can never be happy without the original."
"Is it so?" replied the actress, in the same low tone of emotion; then, placing her hand timidly in his, she added, "The original is yours!"
More Francis A. Durivage Short Stories
