French fiction -- Translations into English; Short stories, French -- Translations into English
But to these misgivings there soon succeeded a sharper pain, and she
strove to banish a hideous thought that arose in her own heart. It
seemed to her that her own love had grown less already, with a vague
suspicion that the painter had fallen somewhat in her eyes.
II
_CATHERINE LESCAULT_
Three months after Poussin and Porbus met, the latter went to see
Master Frenhofer. The old man had fallen a victim to one of those
profound and spontaneous fits of discouragement that are caused,
according to medical logicians, by indigestion, flatulence, fever,
or enlargement of the spleen; or, if you take the opinion of the
Spiritualists, by the imperfections of our mortal nature. The good man
had simply overworked himself in putting the finishing touches to his
mysterious picture. He was lounging in a huge carved oak chair, covered
with black leather, and did not change his listless attitude, but
glanced at Porbus like a man who has settled down into low spirits.
“Well, master,” said Porbus, “was the ultramarine bad that you sent for
to Bruges? Is the new white difficult to grind? Is the oil poor, or are
the brushes recalcitrant?”
“Alas!” cried the old man, “for a moment I thought that my work was
finished, but I am sure that I am mistaken in certain details, and
I can not rest until I have cleared my doubts. I am thinking of
traveling. I am going to Turkey, to Greece, to Asia, in quest of a
model, so as to compare my picture with the different living forms
of Nature. Perhaps,” and a smile of contentment stole over his face,
“perhaps I have Nature herself up there. At times I am half afraid that
a breath may waken her, and that she will escape me.”
He rose to his feet as if to set out at once.
“Aha!” said Porbus, “I have come just in time to save you the trouble
and expense of a journey.”
“What?” asked Frenhofer in amazement.
“Young Poussin is loved by a woman of incomparable and flawless beauty.
But, dear master, if he consents to lend her to you, at the least you
ought to let us see your work.”
The old man stood motionless and completely dazed.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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