The Slaves of Paris - Émile Gaboriau (macos ebook reader .txt) 📗

manly beauty of the young artist, and the clear intelligence of his face.

“Ah,” thought André, “you come to me under a name that is not your own, and I will respect your wish to remain unknown, but I will take advantage of it by letting you know things which I should not dare say to your face.”

Great as was André’s preoccupation, he could not fail to notice that his visitor’s eyes sought the veiled picture with strange persistency. While M. de Mussidan was looking at the various sketches on the walls, André had time to recover all his self-command.

“Let me congratulate you, sir,” remarked the Count, as he returned to the spot where the painter was standing. “My friend’s admiration was well founded. I am sorry, however, that you have nothing finished to show me. You say that you have nothing, I believe?”

“Nothing, Marquis.”

“Not even that picture whose frame I can distinguish through the serge curtain that covers it?”

André blushed, though he had been expecting the question from the commencement.

“Excuse me,” answered he; “that picture is certainly finished, but it is not on view.”

The Count was now sure that Tantaine’s statement was correct.

“I suppose that it is some woman’s portrait,” remarked the false Marquis.

“You are quite correct.”

Both men were much agitated at this moment, and avoided meeting each other’s eyes.

The Count, however, had made up his mind that he would go on to the end.

“Ah, you are in love, I see!” remarked he with a forced laugh. “All great artists have depicted the charms of their mistresses on canvas.”

“Stop,” cried André with an angry glance in his eyes. “The picture you refer to is the portrait of the purest and most innocent girl in the world. I shall love her all my life; but, if possible, my respect for her is greater than my love. I should consider myself a most degraded wretch, had I ever whispered in her ear a word that her mother might not have listened to.”

A feeling of the most instantaneous relief thrilled through M. de Mussidan’s heart.

“You will pardon me,” suggested he blandly, “but when one sees a portrait in a studio, the inference is that a sitting or two has taken place?”

“You are right. She came here secretly, and without the knowledge of her family, at the risk of her honor and reputation, thus affording me the strongest proof of her love. It was cruel of me,” continued the young artist, “to accept this proof of her entire devotion, and yet not only did I accept it, but I pleaded for it on my bended knee, for how else was I to hear the music of her voice, or gladden my eyes with her beauty? We love each other, but a gulf wider than the stormy sea divides us. She is an heiress, come of a proud and haughty line of nobles, while I⁠—”

André paused, waiting for some words wither of encouragement or censure; but the Count remained silent, and the young man continued⁠—

“Do you know who I am? A poor foundling, placed in the Hospital of Vendôme, the illicit offspring of some poor betrayed girl. I started in the world with twenty francs in my pocket, and found my way to Paris; since then I have earned my bread by my daily work. You only see here the more brilliant side of my life; for an artist here⁠—I am a common workman elsewhere.”

If M. de Mussidan remained silent, it was from extreme admiration of the noble character, which was so unexpectedly revealed to him, and he was endeavoring to conceal it.

“She knows all this,” pursued André, “and yet she loves me. It was here, in this very room, that she vowed that she could never be the wife of another. Not a month ago, a gentleman, well born, wealthy, and fascinating, with every characteristic that a woman could love, was a suitor for her hand. She went boldly to him, told him the story of our love, and, like a noble-hearted gentleman, he withdrew at once, and today is my best and kindest friend. Now, Marquis, would you like to see this young girl’s picture?”

“Yes,” answered the Count, “and I shall feel deeply grateful to you for such a mark of confidence.”

André went to the picture, but as he touched the curtain he turned quickly towards his visitor.

“No,” said he, “I can no longer continue this farce; it is unworthy of me.”

M. de Mussidan turned pale.

“I am about to see Sabine de Mussidan’s portrait. Draw the curtain.”

André obeyed, and for a moment the Count stood entranced before the work of genius that met his eyes.

“It is she!” said the father. “Her very smile; the same soft light in her eyes. It is exquisite!”

Misfortune is a harsh teacher; some weeks ago he would have smiled superciliously at the mere idea of granting his daughter’s hand to a struggling artist, for then he thought only of M. de Breulh, but now he would have esteemed it a precious boon had he been allowed to choose André as Sabine’s husband. But Henri de Croisenois stood in the way, and as this idea flashed across the Count’s mind he gave a perceptible start. He was sure from the excessive calmness of the young man that he must be well acquainted with all recent events. He asked the question, and André, in the most open manner, told him all he knew. The generosity of M. de Breulh, the kindness of Madame Bois Arden, his suspicions, his inquiries, his projects, and his hopes. M. de Mussidan gazed once more upon his daughter’s portrait, and then taking the hand of the young painter, said⁠—

“M. André, if ever we can free ourselves from those miscreants, whose daggers are pointed at our hearts, Sabine shall be your wife.”

XXXI Gaston’s Dilemma

Yes, Sabine might yet be his, but between the lovers stood the forms of Croisenois and his associates. But now he felt strong enough to contend with them all.

“To work!” said he, “to work!”

Just then, however, he