VI

The next day he went to his studio, and did not come out of it till he

had placed on canvas the magic of the scene of which the memory had,

in a sense, made him a devotee; his happiness was incomplete till he

should possess a faithful portrait of his idol. He went many times

past the house of the Cat and Racket; he even ventured in once or

twice, under a disguise, to get a closer view of the bewitching

creature that Madame Guillaume covered with her wing. For eight whole

months, devoted to his love and to his brush, he was lost to the sight

of his most intimate friends forgetting the world, the theatre,

poetry, music, and all his dearest habits. One morning Girodet broke

through all the barriers with which artists are familiar, and which

they know how to evade, went into his room, and woke him by asking,

"What are you going to send to the Salon?" The artist grasped his

friend's hand, dragged him off to the studio, uncovered a small easel

picture and a portrait. After a long and eager study of the two

masterpieces, Girodet threw himself on his comrade's neck and hugged

him, without speaking a word. His feelings could only be expressed as

he felt them--soul to soul.

"You are in love?" said Girodet.

They both knew that the finest portraits by Titian, Raphael, and

Leonardo da Vinci, were the outcome of the enthusiastic sentiments by

which, indeed, under various conditions, every masterpiece is

engendered. The artist only bent his head in reply.

"How happy are you to be able to be in love, here, after coming back

from Italy! But I do not advise you to send such works as these to the

Salon," the great painter went on. "You see, these two works will not

be appreciated. Such true coloring, such prodigious work, cannot yet

be understood; the public is not accustomed to such depths. The

pictures we paint, my dear fellow, are mere screens. We should do

better to turn rhymes, and translate the antique poets! There is more

glory to be looked for there than from our luckless canvases!"

Notwithstanding this charitable advice, the two pictures were

exhibited. The /Interior/ made a revolution in painting. It gave birth

to the pictures of genre which pour into all our exhibitions in such

prodigious quantity that they might be supposed to be produced by

machinery. As to the portrait, few artists have forgotten that

lifelike work; and the public, which as a body is sometimes

discerning, awarded it the crown which Girodet himself had hung over

it. The two pictures were surrounded by a vast throng. They fought for

places, as women say. Speculators and moneyed men would have covered

the canvas with double napoleons, but the artist obstinately refused

to sell or to make replicas. An enormous sum was offered him for the

right of engraving them, and the print-sellers were not more favored

than the amateurs.

Though these incidents occupied the world, they were not of a nature

to penetrate the recesses of the monastic solitude in the Rue Saint-

Denis. However, when paying a visit to Madame Guillaume, the notary's

wife spoke of the exhibition before Augustine, of whom she was very

fond, and explained its purpose. Madame Roguin's gossip naturally

inspired Augustine with a wish to see the pictures, and with courage

enough to ask her cousin secretly to take her to the Louvre. Her

cousin succeeded in the negotiations she opened with Madame Guillaume

for permission to release the young girl for two hours from her dull

labors. Augustine was thus able to make her way through the crowd to

see the crowned work. A fit of trembling shook her like an aspen leaf

as she recognized herself. She was terrified, and looked about her to

find Madame Roguin, from whom she had been separated by a tide of

people. At that moment her frightened eyes fell on the impassioned

face of the young painter. She at once recalled the figure of a

loiterer whom, being curious, she had frequently observed, believing

him to be a new neighbor.

"You see how love has inspired me," said the artist in the timid

creature's ear, and she stood in dismay at the words.

She found supernatural courage to enable her to push through the crowd

and join her cousin, who was still struggling with the mass of people

that hindered her from getting to the picture.

"You will be stifled!" cried Augustine. "Let us go."

But there are moments, at the Salon, when two women are not always

free to direct their steps through the galleries. By the irregular

course to which they were compelled by the press, Mademoiselle

Guillaume and her cousin were pushed to within a few steps of the

second picture. Chance thus brought them, both together, to where they

could easily see the canvas made famous by fashion, for once in

agreement with talent. Madame Roguin's exclamation of surprise was

lost in the hubbub and buzz of the crowd; Augustine involuntarily shed

tears at the sight of this wonderful study. Then, by an almost

unaccountable impulse, she laid her finger on her lips, as she

perceived quite near her the ecstatic face of the young painter. The

stranger replied by a nod, and pointed to Madame Roguin, as a spoil-

sport, to show Augustine that he had understood. This pantomime struck

the young girl like hot coals on her flesh; she felt quite guilty as

she perceived that there was a compact between herself and the artist.

The suffocating heat, the dazzling sight of beautiful dresses, the

bewilderment produced in Augustine's brain by the truth of coloring,

the multitude of living or painted figures, the profusion of gilt

frames, gave her a sense of intoxication which doubled her alarms. She

would perhaps have fainted if an unknown rapture had not surged up in

her heart to vivify her whole being, in spite of this chaos of

sensations. She nevertheless believed herself to be under the power of

the Devil, of whose awful snares she had been warned of by the

thundering words of preachers. This moment was to her like a moment of

madness. She found herself accompanied to her cousin's carriage by the

young man, radiant with joy and love. Augustine, a prey to an

agitation new to her experience, an intoxication which seemed to

abandon her to nature, listened to the eloquent voice of her heart,

and looked again and again at the young painter, betraying the emotion

that came over her. Never had the bright rose of her cheeks shown in

stronger contrast with the whiteness of her skin. The artist saw her

beauty in all its bloom, her maiden modesty in all its glory. She

herself felt a sort of rapture mingled with terror at thinking that

her presence had brought happiness to him whose name was on every lip,

and whose talent lent immortality to transient scenes. She was loved!

It was impossible to doubt it. When she no longer saw the artist,

these simple words still echoed in her ear, "You see how love has

inspired me!" And the throbs of her heart, as they grew deeper, seemed

a pain, her heated blood revealed so many unknown forces in her being.

She affected a severe headache to avoid replying to her cousin's

questions concerning the pictures; but on their return Madame Roguin

could not forbear from speaking to Madame Guillaume of the fame that

had fallen on the house of the Cat and Racket, and Augustine quaked in

every limb as she heard her mother say that she should go to the Salon

to see her house there. The young girl again declared herself

suffering, and obtained leave to go to bed.