The drama of Dumas gave Antony a beautiful escape from reality. La Dame aux Camelias disenchanted him from his own problems for the time. In the Count's box he sat in the background and fed his eyes and his ears with the romantic and ardent art of the Second Empire. He found the piece great, mobile, and palpitating, and he was not ashamed. The divine Sarah and Marguerite Gautier died before his eyes, and out of the ashes womanhood arose and called to him, as the Venus de Milo had called to him down the long gallery, and distractions he had known seemed soulless and unreal shapes. He worshipped Dumas in his creation. "Rainsford," whispered Potowski, laying his hand on Antony's knee, "what do you t'ink, my friend?" The tears were raining down his mobile face; he sighed. "_Arrt_," he said in his mellow whisper, "is only the expression of the feeling, the beautiful expression of the feeling. That is the meaning of all _arrt_." The big red curtain fell slowly and the three men, poet, singer and sculptor, kept their seats as though still under the spell of Dumas and unable to break it. "Tony," said Dearborn, as they went out together, "I am going to burn up all four acts." CHAPTER XV The middle of January arrived, and he thought Cedersholm would have come by that time and supposed that they would be off for Rome. The study of his mother was accepted by the jury for the exhibition in the Rue de Sevres, and Fairfax went on the opening day, saw his name in the catalogue, and his study on the red pedestal made a dark mellow note amongst the marbles. He stood with the crowd and listened with beating heart to the comments of the public. He watched the long-haired Bohemians and the worldly people, the Philistine and the elite as they surged, a little sea of criticism, approval, praise and blame, through the rooms. "Pas mal, ca." "Here is a study that is worth looking at." "By whom is this?" And each time that he heard his name read aloud--Thomas Rainsford--he was jealous of it for Antony. It seemed a sacrilege, a treachery. He wandered about, looking at the other exhibits, but could not keep away from his own, and came back timidly, happily, to stand by the figure of his mother in her chair. There was much peace in the little work of art, much repose. He seemed to see himself again a boy, as he had been that day when she asked for the cherries and he had run off to climb for them--and had gone limping ever since. She had sat languidly with her book that day, as she sat now, immortalized by her son in clay. Some one came up and touched his arm. "Bonjour, Rainsford." It was Barye, his chief. He had been looking at the group behind the sculptor. He said briefly: "Je vous felicite, monsieur." He smiled on his journeyman from under shaggy brows. "They will talk about you in the _Figaro_. C'est exquis." Fairfax thanked him and watched Barye's face as the master scrutinized and went around the little figure. He put out his hand to Fairfax.