Read Ebook: Moon-madness and other fantasies by Gouraud Aim E Crocker

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Ebook has 1192 lines and 11834 words, and 24 pages

MOON-MADNESS

"OUR LADY OF RED LIPS"

THE place was Paris.

A man stood in front of an art-dealer's window, and looked at the painted picture of a woman.

The man was about twenty-five years of age and extremely handsome.

He was big and brawny.

His hair was brown and curly, and his eyes were blue and frank.

The woman was about thirty years of age, and exceedingly beautiful.

She was small and slender.

Her complexion was creamy white, her hair was inky black, her eyes were dark green, and her lips were bright red.

If you were French, you could tell that the man was American.

And if you were an American, you could tell that the woman was French.

The man stood and stared at the picture.

He stared at the white complexion--but he had seen complexion like that before.

He stared at the black hair--but he had also seen hair like that before.

He stared at the green eyes--but he had even seen eyes like that before.

He stared at the red lips--and he had never seen lips like that before.

He had never thought of such lips.

He had never dreamed of such lips.

Of course their vivid crimson color was unnatural, fantastic, grotesque.

The picture must have been designed for a poster.

But nevertheless it fascinated the man strangely.

The white face seemed to turn to him.

The green eyes seemed to look at him.

The red lips seemed to smile at him.

The man hesitated.

And then he went into the shop.

"What is that picture?" said the man.

"That is the portrait of a lady," said the proprietor.

"Who painted it?" said the man.

"Paul Gaspard," said the proprietor.

"Is he well known?" said the man.

"He would have been--had he lived," said the proprietor.

"Is he dead?" said the man.

"Yes," said the proprietor, "he died six months ago, under peculiar circumstances."

"Tell me about it," said the man.

"He was young, and he was clever, and he was handsome," said the proprietor, "men admired him, and women loved him. The lady who posed for this portrait was one of those who loved him. She had loved other men. She had loved an Italian prince. But he died. She had loved an English lord. But he died, also. And then--she loved Paul Gaspard."

"And then he too died!" said the man.

"Yes--and he too died!" said the proprietor.

"How did he die?" said the man.

"Nobody knows how--or why," said the proprietor. "He was found dead in his bed one morning. That was all. There was some sort of a wound, or a scar, on his breast, over his heart. For a time the coroner was puzzled. At first there was some thought of suicide--or even of murder. But, in the end, the authorities decided that Paul Gaspard had died from natural causes, and there the matter ended."

"And the picture," said the man.

"The picture had just been finished on the very day he died," said the proprietor, "by a strange coincidence."

"Very strange indeed!" said the man.

"Paul Gaspard had from time to time borrowed sums of money from me, until he owed me in all some fifteen hundred francs," said the proprietor, "so when he died, and left no money, I claimed the picture--and I got it."

"And the lady who posed for it?" said the man.

"She left Paris as soon as Paul Gaspard was in his grave," said the proprietor.

"Where did she go?" said the man.

"To St. Petersburg--with a Russian duke," said the proprietor.

"Is she there now?" said the man.

"No, she is at Monte Carlo," said the proprietor.

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