The Laughing Cavalier - Baroness Orczy (chapter books to read to 5 year olds .txt) 📗

the artist every bit of him, the tone, the pose, the line, the colour and that face full of life, of the joy of living, that merry twinkle in the eyes, that laugh that forever hovers on the lips.

We all stand before it, marvelling at the artist’s skill, for we know that the portrait is true to the life; we know that it is true, because we know the man; his whole character is there indelibly writ upon the canvas by the master-hand of a genius:⁠—Diogenes the soldier of fortune is there, the man who bows to no will save to his own, too independent to bow to kindred or to power, the man who takes life as he finds it, but leavens it with his own gaiety and the priceless richness of his own humour: we know him for his lighthearted gaiety, we condone his swagger, we forgive his reckless disregard of all that makes for sobriety and respectability. The eyes twinkle at us, the mouth all but speaks, and we know and recognize every detail as true; only the fine, straight brow, the noble forehead, the delicate contour of the nose and jaw puzzle us at times, for those we cannot reconcile with the man’s calling or with his namelessness, until we remember his boast in the tavern of the Lame Cow on New Year’s morning: “My father was one of those who came in English Leicester’s train.”

So we see him now standing quite still, while the artist is absorbed in his work: his tall figure very erect, the head slightly thrown back, the well-shaped hand resting on the hip and veiled in folds of filmy lace. And so did Mynheer Nicolaes Beresteyn see him as he entered the artist’s studio at ten o’clock of that same New Year’s morning.

“A happy New Year to you, my good Hals,” he said with easy condescension. “Vervloekte weather, eh⁠—for the incoming year! there must be half a foot of snow in the by-streets by now.”

With that same air of graciousness he acknowledged the artist’s obsequious bow. His father Mynheer Councillor Beresteyn was an avowed patron of Frans Hals and the hour had not yet struck in civilized Europe when wealth would go hat in hand bowing to genius and soliciting its recognition. In this year of grace 1624 genius had still to hold the hat and to acknowledge if not to solicit the kindly favours of wealth.

Nicolaes Beresteyn did not know exactly how to greet the man with whom he had a few hours ago bandied arguments in the tap room of a tavern, and whom⁠—to tell the truth⁠—he had expressly come to find. The complaisant nod which he had bestowed on Frans Hals did not somehow seem appropriate for that swaggering young knight of industry, who looked down on him from the high eminence of the model’s platform so that Nicolaes was obliged to look well up, if he wished to meet his glance at all.

It was the obscure soldier of fortune who relieved the pompous burgher of his embarrassment.

“Fate hath evidently not meant that we should remain strangers, sir,” he said lightly, “this meeting after last night’s pleasing amenities is indeed unexpected.”

“And most welcome, sir, as far as I am concerned,” rejoined Nicolaes pleasantly. “My name is Nicolaes Beresteyn and right glad am I to renew our acquaintance of last night. I had no idea that my friend Hals could command so perfect a model. No wonder that his pictures have become the talk of the town.”

He turned back to Hals now with a resumption of his patronizing manner.

“I came to confirm my father’s suggestion, my good Hals, that you should paint his portrait and at the price you named yourself. The officers of St. Joris’ Guild are also desirous, as I understand, of possessing yet another group from your brush.”

“I shall be honoured,” said the artist simply.

“ ’Tis many an ugly face you’ll have to paint within the next few months, my friend,” added Diogenes lightly.

“My father is reckoned one of the handsomest men in Holland,” retorted Beresteyn with becoming dignity.

“And the owner of the finest tulip bulbs in the land,” said the other imperturbably. “I heard him tell last night that he had just given more florins for one bit of dried onion than I have ever fingered in the whole course of my life.”

“Fortune, sir, has not dealt with you hitherto in accordance with your deserts.”

“No! ’tis my sternest reproach against her.”

“There is always a tide, sir, in a man’s fortunes.”

“Mine I feel, sir, is rising at your call.”

There was a moment’s pause now while the two men looked on one another eye to eye, appraising one another, each counting on his opponent’s worth. Then Nicolaes suddenly turned back to Frans Hals.

“My good Hals,” he said, “might I crave a favour from your friendship?”

“I am at your service, mynheer, now as always as you know,” murmured the artist, who indeed was marvelling what favour so illustrious a gentleman could ask of a penniless painter of portraits.

“ ’Tis but a small matter to you,” rejoined Nicolaes, “but it would be of great service to me. I desire to hold private conversation with this gentleman. Could I do so in your house without attracting anybody’s attention?”

“Easily, sir. This room though none too comfortable is at your disposal. I have plenty of work to do in another part of my house. No one will come in here. You will be quite undisturbed.”

“I am infinitely obliged to you. ’Tis but half-an-hour’s privacy I desire⁠ ⁠… providing this gentleman will grant me the interview.”

“Like my friend Hals,” rejoined Diogenes suavely, “I am, sir, at your service. The tides are rising around me, I feel them swelling even as I speak. I have an overwhelming desire to ride on the crest of the waves, rather than to duck under them against my will.”

“I hope this intrusion will not retard your work too much, my good Hals,” said Beresteyn with somewhat perfunctory solicitude