Read Ebook: She and he; Lavinia; Memoir by Sand George Burgan J Alfred Contributor Graff J B James Bell Illustrator Ives George Burnham Translator

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"'No; but the public doesn't permit us to follow more than one branch. They insist upon knowing what to expect, especially when we are young; and if I who am speaking, and who am very young, should have the ill-luck to paint a good portrait of you, I should find it very difficult to succeed at the next Exposition with anything but portraits; and, in like manner, if I made only a moderately good one, I should be forbidden ever to try another: the public would pass judgment to the effect that I had not the essential qualities of a portrait-painter, and that I was a presumptuous fellow to make the attempt.'

"I told my Englishman much more nonsense, which I spare you, and which made him open his eyes; after which he began to laugh, and I saw clearly that my arguments inspired in him the most profound contempt for France, if not for your humble servant.

"'Let us say the word,' he said. 'You do not like portrait-painting.'

"You can imagine, Th?r?se, that I did not say to my Englishman a word of what I have said to you; one can always arrange one's thoughts better when talking to one's self; but of all that I could say to excuse myself for not painting his portrait, nothing had any effect but these few words: 'Why the devil don't you apply to Mademoiselle Jacques?'

"I am altogether down in the mouth to-day, I don't know why. I breakfasted so poorly this morning--I have never eaten with so little satisfaction since I have had a cook. And then one cannot get any good tobacco nowadays. The government monopoly poisons you. And then I have a pair of new boots which don't fit at all. And then it rains. And then--and then--I don't know what. The days have been as long as days without bread, for some time past, don't you find them so? No, you don't, of course. You know nothing of this feeling of gloom, the pleasure that bores, the boredom that intoxicates, the nameless disease of which I spoke to you the other evening in the little lilac salon where I would like to be now; for I have a horrible light for painting, and not being able to paint, it would please me to bore you to death by my conversation.

"So I shall not see you to-day! You have an insupportable family who steal you from your most delightful friends! In that case I shall be driven to do some foolish thing this evening! Such is the effect of your kindness to me, my dear, tall comrade. It makes me so stupid and so good for nothing when I do not see you, that I absolutely must divert myself at the risk of shocking you. But never fear, I will not tell you how I employ my evening.

"Your friend and servant,

"LAURENT.

"May 11, 183--."

TO M. LAURENT DE FAUVEL

"First of all, my dear Laurent, I entreat you, if you have any friendship for me, not to indulge too often in foolish things which injure your health. I will wink at all others. You may ask me to mention one such, and I should be sadly embarrassed to do it; for I know very few foolish things which are not injurious. So I must needs find out what you call by that name. If you mean one of those long suppers you spoke about the other day, I think that they are killing you, and I am in despair. What are you thinking of, in God's name, to ruin thus, with a smile on your lips, an existence so precious and beautiful? But you want no sermons; I confine myself to prayers.

"As for your Englishman, who is an American, I have seen him, and as I shall not see you to-night or to-morrow, to my great regret, I must tell you that you were altogether wrong not to consent to do his portrait. He would have offered you the eyes out of his head, and with an American like Dick Palmer, the eyes out of his head means a goodly number of bank-notes, of which you stand in need to prevent you from doing foolish things, that is to say, from haunting gambling-houses in the hope of a stroke of fortune which never comes to people of imagination, because people of imagination do not know how to play cards, because they always lose, and because they must thereupon appeal to their imagination for the wherewithal to pay their debts--a trade to which that princess does not feel adapted, and to which she cannot adapt herself except by setting fire to the poor body she inhabits.

"You find me very outspoken, do you not? That does not matter to me. Moreover, if we approach the subject from a more exalted standpoint, all the reasons that you gave to your American and me are not worth two sous. That you do not know how to paint portraits is possible, nay, it is certain, if it must be done under the conditions which attend vulgar success in that art; but Monsieur Palmer did not stipulate that it should be so. You took him for a green-grocer, and you made a mistake. He is a man of judgment and taste, who knows what he is talking about, and who has an enthusiastic admiration for you. Judge whether I gave him a warm welcome! He came to me as a makeshift; I saw it plainly enough, and I was grateful to him for it. So I consoled him by promising to do all that I possibly could to induce you to paint him. We will talk about it the day after to-morrow, for I have made an appointment with the said Palmer for that evening, so that he may assist me to plead his own cause, and may carry away your promise.

"And now, my dear Laurent, console yourself as best you can for not seeing me for two days. It will not be difficult for you: you know many bright people, and you have a footing in the best society. For my part, I am only an old sermonizer who is very fond of you, who implores you not to go to bed late every night, and who advises you to carry nothing to excess or abuse. You have no right to do it: genius imposes obligations.

"Your comrade,

"TH?R?SE JACQUES."

TO MADEMOISELLE JACQUES

MY DEAR TH?R?SE:

"As for the portrait, let us say no more about it. You are a thousand times too motherly, my dear Th?r?se, to think of my interests to the detriment of your own. Although you have a fine client?le, I know that your generosity does not permit you to save money, and that a few bank-notes will be much more suitably placed in your hands than in mine. You will employ them in making others happy, and I should toss them on a card-table, as you say.

"Your friend,

"LAURENT."

Th?r?se understood perfectly, at first sight, the spleen and jealousy which dictated this letter.

"And yet," she said to herself, "he is not in love with me. Oh! no; he certainly will never be in love with any one, with me least of all."

But as she read and reread the letter and mused upon it, Th?r?se feared lest she might deceive herself in seeking to convince herself that Laurent incurred no danger with her.

"But what danger?" she said to herself; "the danger of suffering for an unsatisfied caprice? Does one suffer much for a caprice? I have no idea myself. I never had one."

But the clock marked half-past five in the afternoon; and Th?r?se, having put the key in her pocket, called for her hat, gave her servant leave of absence for twenty-four hours, laid several special injunctions upon her faithful old Catherine, and took a cab. Two hours later, she returned accompanied by a short, slender woman, slightly bent and closely veiled, whose face the driver did not see. She closeted herself with this mysterious individual, and Catherine served them a dainty little dinner. Th?r?se waited upon and was most attentive to her guest, who gazed at her with such agitation and ecstasy that she could not eat.

Mercourt, a young critic and friend of Laurent, entered the studio.

"I know," he said, "that you are going to Montmorency. So I have simply looked in to ask you for an address, Mademoiselle Jacques's."

Laurent started.

"What the devil do you want of Mademoiselle Jacques?" he rejoined, pretending to be looking for cigarette-papers.

"I? nothing--that is to say, yes, I would like to know her; but I know her only by sight and reputation. I want her address for a person who is anxious to be painted."

"You know Mademoiselle Jacques by sight, you say?"

"You think so?"

"To be sure, and you?"

"I? I know nothing about it. I am very fond of her, so I am not a competent judge."

"You are very fond of her?"

"Yes, I admit it, you see; which proves that I am not paying court to her."

"Do you see her often?"

"Sometimes."

"Then you are her friend--seriously?"

"Well, yes, to some extent. Why do you laugh?"

"Because I don't believe a word of it; at twenty-four, one is not the serious friend of a--young and beautiful woman!"

"Bah! she is neither so young nor so beautiful as you say. She is a good comrade, not unpleasant to look at, that's all. But she belongs to a type that I don't like, and I am obliged to forgive her for being a blonde. I don't like blondes, except in painting."

"She is not so very light after all! her eyes are of a soft black, her hair is neither light nor dark, and she arranges it in a peculiar way. However, it's becoming to her: she has the look of an amiable sphinx."

"A very pretty comparison; but--you like tall women, it seems!"

"She is not very tall, and she has small feet and small hands. She is a true woman. I have examined her very carefully, being in love with her."

"I say, what are you thinking about?"

"It makes no difference to you, since, viewed as a woman simply, she doesn't attract you."

"My dear fellow, if she did attract me, it would be all the same. In that case, I should try to be on a more intimate footing with her than I am; but I should not be in love with her, that being a profession which I do not practise; consequently, I should not be jealous. So press your suit, if you think best."

"Or what?"

"I meant to say whether she is the widow of a lover or a husband."

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