The union, formed under the happiest auspices, had been, alas! of short duration. Death, unpitying death, had ruptured it, by prematurely carrying off the young husband. The sculptor was summoned by the widow. He traversed apartments silent and deserted, until he was introduced into a bed-room, and found himself in presence of a lady, young and beautiful, but habited in the deepest mourning, and with a face furrowed by tears. "You are aware," said she, with a painful effort and a voice half choked by sobs, "You are aware of the blow which I have received?" The artist bowed, with an air of respectful condolence. "Sir," continued the widow, "I am anxious to have a funeral monument erected, in honour of the husband whom I have lost." The artist bowed again. "I wish that the monument should be superb, worthy of the man whose loss I weep, proportioned to the unending grief into which his loss has plunged me. I care not what it costs. I am rich, and I will willingly sacrifice all my fortune to do honour to the memory of an adored husband. I must have a temple--with columns--in marble--and in the middle--on a pedestal--his statue." "I will do my best to fulfill your wishes, Madam," replied the artist; "but I had not the honour of acquaintance with the deceased, and a likeness of him is indispensable for the due execution of my work. Without doubt, you have his portrait?" The widow raised her arm, and pointed despairingly to a splendid likeness by Amaury Duval. "A most admirable picture!" observed the artist; "and the painter's name is sufficient guarantee for its striking resemblance to the original." "Those are his very features, Sir; it is himself. It wants but life. Ah! Would that I could restore it to him at the cost of all my blood!" "I will have this portrait carried to my studio, Madam, and I promise you that the marble shall reproduce it exactly." The widow, at these words, sprung up, and at a single bound throwing herself towards the picture, with arms stretched out as though to defend it, exclaimed: "Take away this portrait! carry off my only consolation! my sole remaining comfort! never! never!" "But Madam, you will only be deprived of it for a short time, and--" "Not an hour! not a minute! could I exist without his beloved image! Look you, Sir, I have had it placed here, in my own room, that my eyes might be fastened upon it, without ceasing, and through my tears. His portrait shall never leave this spot one single instant, and in contemplating that will I pass the remainder of a miserable and sorrowful existence." "In that case, Madam, you will be compelled to permit me to take a copy of it. But do not be uneasy--I shall not have occasion to trouble your solitude for any length of time; one sketch--one sitting will suffice."