Autobiographical fiction; Impressionist artists -- France -- Paris -- Fiction; Paris (France) -- Intellectual life -- Fiction
Days went by, and between them that fixed idea grew in intensity. The
moment they were together they could not help thinking of it. Not a word
was spoken on the subject, but their very silence was eloquent; they no
longer made a movement, no longer exchanged a smile without stumbling
upon that thought, which they found impossible to put into words, though
it filled their minds. Soon nothing but that remained in their fraternal
intercourse. And the perturbation of heart and senses which they had
so far avoided in the course of their familiar intimacy, came at last,
under the influence of the all-besetting thought. And then the anguish
which they left unmentioned, but which they could not hide from one
another, racked and stifled them, left them heaving distressfully with
painful sighs.
Towards the middle of March, Christine, at one of her visits, found
Claude seated before his picture, overcome with sorrow. He had not
even heard her enter. He remained motionless, with vacant, haggard eyes
staring at his unfinished work. In another three days the delay for
sending in exhibits for the Salon would expire.
‘Well,’ she inquired gently, after standing for a long time behind him,
grief-stricken at seeing him in such despair.
He started and turned round.
‘Well, it’s all up. I sha’n’t exhibit anything this year. Ah! I who
relied so much upon this Salon!’
Both relapsed into despondency--a despondency and agitation full of
confused thoughts. Then she resumed, thinking aloud as it were:
‘There would still be time.’
‘Time? Oh! no indeed. A miracle would be needed. Where am I to find a
model so late in the day? Do you know, since this morning I have been
worrying, and for a moment I thought I had hit upon an idea: Yes, it
would be to go and fetch that girl, that Irma who came while you were
here. I know well enough that she is short and not at all such as I
thought of, and so I should perhaps have to change everything once more;
but all the same it might be possible to make her do. Decidedly, I’ll
try her--’
He stopped short. The glowing eyes with which he gazed at her clearly
said: ‘Ah! there’s you! ah! it would be the hoped-for miracle, and
triumph would be certain, if you were to make this supreme sacrifice
for me. I beseech you, I ask you devoutly, as a friend, the dearest, the
most beauteous, the most pure.’
She, erect, looking very pale, seemed to hear each of those words,
though all remained unspoken, and his ardently beseeching eyes overcame
her. She herself did not speak. She simply did as she was desired,
acting almost like one in a dream. Beneath it all there lurked the
thought that he must not ask elsewhere, for she was now conscious of
her earlier jealous disquietude and wished to share his affections with
none. Yet it was in silence and all chastity that she stretched herself
on the couch, and took up the pose, with one arm under her head, her
eyes closed.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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