19On leaving the Hotel de Mussidan, M. de Breulh-Faverlay dismissed hiscarriage, for he felt as a man often does after experiencing someviolent emotion, the absolute necessity for exercise, and to be alonewith his thoughts, and by so doing recover his self-possession. Hisfriends would have been surprised if they had seen him pacinghurriedly along the Champs Elysees. The usual calm of his manner hadvanished, and the generally calm expression of his features wasentirely absent. As he walked, he talked to himself, and gesticulated.
"And this is what we call being a man of the world. We think ourselvestrue philosophers, and a look from a pair of beautiful, pleading eyesscatters all our theories to the winds."He had loved Sabine upon the day on which he had asked for her hand,but not so fondly as upon this day when he had learned that she couldno longer be his wife, for, from the moment he had made thisdiscovery, she seemed to him more gifted and fascinating than ever. Noone could have believed that he, the idol of society, the petteddarling of the women, and the successful rival of the men, could havebeen refused by the young girl to whom he had offered his hand.
"Yes," murmured he with a sigh, "for she is just the companion forlife that I longed for. Where could I find so intelligent an intellectand so pure a mind, united with such radiant beauty, so different fromthe women of society, who live but for dress and gossip. Has Sabineanything in common with those giddy girls who look upon life as aperpetual value, and who take a husband as they do a partner, becausethey cannot dance without one? How her face lighted up as she spoke ofhim, and how thoroughly she puts faith in him! The end of it all isthat I shall die a bachelor. In my old age I will take to thepleasures of the table, for an excellent authority declares that a mancan enjoy his four meals a day with comfort. Well, that is somethingto look forward to certainly, and it will not impair my digestion ifmy heirs and expectants come and squabble round my armchair. Ah," headded, with a deep sigh, "my life has been a failure."M. de Breulh-Faverlay was a very different type of man to that whichboth his friends and his enemies popularly supposed him to be. Uponthe death of his uncle, he had plunged into the frivolous vortex ofParisian dissipation, but of this he had soon wearied.
All that he had cared for was to see the doings of his racehorsechronicled in the sporting journals, and occasionally to expend a fewthousand francs in presents of jewelry to some fashionable actress.
But he had secretly longed for some more honorable manner offulfilling his duties in life, and he had determined that before hismarriage he would sell his stud and break with his old associatesentirely; and now this wished-for marriage would never take place.
When he entered his club, the traces of his agitation were so visibleupon his face, that some of the card-players stopped their game toinquire if Chambertin, the favorite for the Chantilly cup, had brokendown.
"No, no," replied he, as he hurriedly made his way to the writing-room, "Chambertin is as sound as a bell.""What the deuce has happened to De Breulh?" asked one of the members.
"Goodness gracious!" remarked the man to whom the question wasaddressed, "he seems in a hurry to write a letter."The gentleman was right. M. de Breulh was writing a withdrawal fromhis demand for Sabine's hand to M. de Mussidan, and he found the taskby no means an easy one, for on reading it over he found that therewas a valid strain of bitterness throughout it, which would surelyattract attention and perhaps cause embarrassing questions to be putto him.
"No," murmured he, "this letter is quite unworthy of me." And tearingit up, he began another, in which he strung together severalconventional excuses, alleging the difficulty of breaking off hisformer habits and of an awkward entanglement which he had been unableto break with, as he had anticipated. When this little masterpiece ofdiplomacy was completed, he rang the bell, and, handing it to one ofthe club servants, told him to take it to the Count de Mussidan'shouse. When this unpleasant duty was over, M. de Breulh had hoped toexperience some feeling of relief, but in this he was mistaken. Hetried cards, but rose from the table in a quarter of an hour; heordered dinner, but appetite was wanting; he went to the opera, butthen he did nothing but yawn, and the music grated on his nerves. Atlength he returned home. The day had seemed interminable, and he couldnot sleep, for Sabine's face was ever before him. Who could this manbe whom she so fondly loved and preferred before all others? Herespected her too much not to feel assured that her choice was aworthy one, but his experience had taught him that when so many men ofthe world fell into strange entanglements, a poor girl withoutknowledge of the dangers around her might easily be entrapped. "If heis worthy of her," thought he, "I will do my best to aid her; but ifnot, I will open her eyes."At four o'clock in the morning he was still seated musing before theexpiring embers of his fire; he had made up his mind to see Andre--there was no difficulty in this, for a man of taste and wealth canfind a ready excuse for visiting the studio of a struggling artist. Hehad no fixed plan as to what he would say or do, he left all tochance, and with this decision he went to bed, and by two in theafternoon he drove straight to the Rue de la Tour d'Auvergne.
Andre's discreet portress was as usual leaning on her boom in thegallery as M. de Breulh's magnificent equipage drew up.
"Gracious me!" exclaimed the worthy woman, dazzled by the gorgeousnessof the whole turnout; "he can't be coming here, he must have mistakenthe house."But her amazement reach its height when M. de Breulh, on alighting,asked for Andre.
"Fourth story, first door to the right," answered the woman; "but Iwill show you the way.""Don't trouble yourself;" and with these words M. de Breulh ascendedthe staircase that led to the painter's studio and knocked on thedoor. As he did so, he heard a quick, light step upon the stairs, anda young and very dark man, dressed in a weaver's blouse and carrying atin pail which he had evidently just filled with water from thecistern, came up.
"Are you M. Andre?" asked De Breulh.
"That is my name, sir.""I wish to say a few words to you.""Pray come in," replied the young artist, opening the door of hisstudio and ushering his visitor in. Andre's voice and expression hadmade a favorable impression upon his visitor; but he was, in spite ofhis having thrown aside nearly all foolish prejudices, a littlestartled at his costume. He did not, however, allow his surprise to bevisible.
"I ought to apologize for receiving you like this," remarked Andrequickly, "but a poor man must wait upon himself." As he spoke, hethrew off his blouse and set down the pail in a corner of the room.
"I rather should offer my excuse for my intrusion," returned M. deBreulh. "I came here by the advice of one of my friends;" he stoppedfor an instant, endeavoring to think of a name.
"By Prince Crescensi, perhaps," suggested Andre.
"Yes, yes," continued M. de Breulh, eagerly snatching at the rope theartist held out to him. "The Prince sings your praises everywhere, andspeaks of your talents with the utmost enthusiasm. I am, on hisrecommendation, desirous of commissioning you to paint a picture forme, and I can assure you that in my gallery it will have no need to beashamed of its companions."Andre bowed, coloring deeply at the compliment.
"I am obliged to you," said he, "and I trust that you will not bedisappointed in taking the Prince's opinion of my talent.""Why should I be so?""Because, for the last four months I have been so busy that I havereally nothing to show you.""That is of no importance. I have every confidence in you.""Then," returned Andre, "all that we have to do is to choose asubject."Andre's manner had by this time so captivated De Breulh that hemuttered to himself, "I really ought to hate this fellow, but on myword I like him better than any one I have met for a long time."Andre had by this time placed a large portfolio on the table. "Here,"said he, "are some twenty or thirty sketches; if any of them took yourfancy, you could make your choice.""Let me see them," returned De Breulh politely, for having made anestimate of the young man's character, he now wished to see what hisartistic talents were like. With this object in view he examined allthe sketches in the portfolio minutely, and then turned to those onthe walls. Andre said nothing, but he somehow felt that this visitwould prove the turning-point of his misfortunes. But for all that theyoung man's heart was very sad, for it was two days since Sabine hadleft him, promising to write to him the next morning regarding M. deBreulh-Faverlay, but as yet he had received no communication, and hewas on the tenterhooks of expectation, not because he had any doubt ofSabine, but for the reason that he had no means of obtaining anyinformation of what went on in the interior of the Hotel de Mussidan.
M. de Breulh had now finished his survey, and had come to theconclusion that though many of Andre's productions were crude andlacking in finish, yet that he had the true artistic metal in him. Heextended his hand to the young man and said forcibly, "I am no longerinfluenced by the opinion of a friend. I have seen and judged formyself, and am more desirous than ever of possessing one of yourpictures. I have made my choice of a subject, and now let us discussthe details."As he spoke he handed a little sketch to Andre. It was a view ofeveryday life, which ............