SLAVES OF PARIS (Complete Edition). Emile Gaboriau

cannot help it; I am driven to despair.”

      Never had Sabine appeared so lovely; her eyes gleamed with some generous impulse, and her face glowed.

      “Suppose,” said she, “I could give you a ray of future hope, what would you do then?”

      “What would I not do then? All that a man could. I would fight my way through all opposition. Give me the hardest task, and I will fulfil it. If money is wanted, I will gain it; if a name, I will win it.”

      “There is one thing that you have forgotten, and that is patience.”

      “And that, Mademoiselle, I possess also. Do you not understand that with one word of hope from you I can live on?”

      Sabine raised her head heavenwards. “Work!” she exclaimed. “Work and hope, for I swear that I will never wed other than you.”

      Here the voice of the old lady interrupted the lovers.

      “Still lingering here!” she cried, in a voice like a trumpet call. Andre fled away with hope in his heart, and felt that he had now something to live for. No one knew exactly what happened after his departure. No doubt Sabine brought round her aunt to her way of thinking, for at her death, which happened two months afterward, she left the whole of her immense fortune directly to her niece, giving her the income while she remained single, and the capital on her marriage, whether with or without the consent of her parents. Madame de Mussidan declared that the old lady had gone crazy, but both Andre and Sabine knew what she had intended, and sincerely mourned for the excellent woman, whose last act had been to smooth away the difficulties from their path. Andre worked harder than ever, and Sabine encouraged him by fresh promises. Sabine was even more free in Paris than at Mussidan, and her attached maid, Modeste, would have committed almost any crime to promote the happiness of her beloved mistress. The lovers now corresponded regularly, and Sabine, accompanied by Modeste, frequently visited the artist’s studio, and never was a saint treated with greater respect and adoration than was Sabine by Andre.

      Chapter IX.

       Rose’s Promotion

       Table of Contents

      As soon as Andre had released her hand, Sabine took off her hat, and, handing it to Modeste, remarked,—

      “How am I looking to-day, Andre?”

      The young painter hastened to reassure her on this point, and she continued in joyous tones,—

      “No, I do not want compliments; I want to know if I look the right thing for sitting for my portrait.”

      Sabine was very beautiful, but hers was a different style of beauty from that of Rose, whose ripe, sensuous charms were fitted to captivate the admiration of the voluptuary, while Sabine was of the most refined and ethereal character. Rose fettered the body with earthly trammels, while Sabine drew the soul heavenward. Her beauty was not of the kind that dazzles, for the air of proud reserve which she threw over it, in some slight measure obscured its brilliancy.

      She might have passed unnoticed, like the work of a great master’s brush hanging neglected over the altar of a village church; but when the eye had once fathomed that hidden beauty, it never ceased to gaze on it with admiration. She had a broad forehead, covered with a wealth of chestnut hair, soft, lustrous eyes, and an exquisitely chiselled mouth.

      “Alas!” said Andre, “when I gaze upon you, I have to confess how impossible it is to do you justice. Before you came I had fancied that the portrait was completed, but now I see that I have only made a failure.”

      As he spoke, he drew aside the curtain, and the young girl’s portrait was revealed. It was by no means a work of extraordinary merit. The artist was only twenty-four years of age, and had been compelled to interrupt his studies to toil for his daily bread, but it was full of originality and genius. Sabine gazed at it for a few moments in silence, and then murmured the words,—

      “It is lovely!”

      But Andre was too discouraged to notice her praise.

      “It is like,” remarked he, “but a photograph also has that merit. I have only got your features, but not your expression; it is an utter failure. Shall I try again?”

      Sabine stopped him with a gesture of denial.

      “You shall not try again,” said she decidedly.

      “And why not?” asked he in astonishment.

      “Because this visit will be my last, Andre.”

      “The last?” stammered the painter. “In what way have I so offended you, that you should inflict so terrible a punishment on me?”

      “I do not wish to punish you. You asked for my portrait, and I yielded to your request; but let us talk reasonably. Do you not know that I am risking my reputation by coming here day after day?”

      Andre made no reply, for this unexpected blow had almost stunned him.

      “Besides,” continued Mademoiselle de Mussidan, “what is to be done with the portrait? It must be hidden away, as if it were something we were ashamed of. Remember, on your success hangs our marriage.”

      “I do not forget that.”

      “Hasten then to gain all honor and distinction, for the world must agree with me in saying that my choice has been a wise one.”

      “I will do so.”

      “I fully believe you, dear Andre, and remember what I said to you a year ago. Achieve a name, then go to my father and ask for my hand. If he refuses, if my supplications do not move him, I will quit his roof forever.”

      “You are right,” answered Andre. “I should indeed by a fool if I sacrificed a future happy life for a few hours of present enjoyment, and I will implicitly—”

      “And now,” said Sabine, “that we have agreed on this point, let us discuss our mutual interests, of which it seems that we have been a little negligent up till now.”

      Andre at once began to tell her of all that had befallen him since they had last met, his defeats and successes.

      “I am in an awkward plight,” said he. “Yesterday, that well known collector, Prince Crescenzi, came to my studio. One of my pictures took his fancy, and he ordered another from me, for which he would pay six thousand francs.”

      “That was quite a stroke of luck.”

      “Just so, but unfortunately he wants it directly. Then Jean Lamou, who has more in his hand than he can manage, has offered me the decoration of a palatial edifice that he is building for a great speculator, M. Gandelu. I am to engage all the workmen, and shall receive some seven or eight hundred francs a month.”

      “But how does this trouble you?”

      “I will tell you. I have twice seen M. Gandelu, and he wants me to begin work at once; but I cannot accept both, and must choose between them.”

      Sabine reflected.

      “I should execute the Prince’s commission,” said she.

      “So should I, only——”

      The girl easily found the cause of his hesitation.

      “Will you never forget that I am wealthy?” replied she.

      “The one would bring in the most money,” he returned, “and the other most credit.”

      “Then accept the offer of M. Gandelu.”

      The old cuckoo-clock in the corner struck five.

      “Before we part, dear Andre,” resumed she, “I must tell you of a fresh trouble which threatens us; there is a project for marrying me to M. de Breulh-Faverlay.”

      “What,