M CHAPTER V. PROMETHEUS. AURICE Valazé was so much pleased with his visit to Marguerite and her father that, from that evening, he seldom let a day pass without spending part of it with his new friends; and very soon they learnt to expect these daily visits, and to welcome him as if he had been all his life one of the family. Though his nature was somewhat restless and changeable, with an intense love of pleasure and excitement, and his feelings easily swayed by every impulse, there was so much that was good, gentle and affectionate in his disposition, that he found a sweet and tranquillizing charm in the simple domestic life into which he had been so frankly admitted. The homely good sense and benevolence of Christian Kneller, the lively chatter of Claire, even the harmless gossip of Mère Monica, were a relief to him after the hackneyed cant and factitious enthusiasm of amateurs full of silly pretension, and artists who had no higher aims than wealth and praise; or the reckless mirth and revelry which filled up his fellow-students' hours of relaxation; and of such the only society to which he had access in Paris was composed. But the chief charm which drew him to the house of Christian Kneller lay in Marguerite. He had recognized genius in her work even before it had been stamped with the approval of the great master, from whose judgment few in Paris would have been daring enough to dissent; but on being admitted to her atelier, and seeing her drawings, sketches and designs, all of the highest merit, his enthusiasm of admiration was unbounded. Her utter freedom from vanity and pretension, joined to so much genius and artistic power, puzzled and excited his curiosity and interest; and still more, her calm, gentle, undemonstrative manner, contrasted with the depths of thought and feeling that seemed to lie behind her noble forehead and radiant eyes. Then her simple frankness had a wonderful and never ceasing charm. It was new to him to see a woman without coquetry or affectation, and he felt a pleasant sense of rest and tranquillity in watching her serene and candid countenance, and the quiet simplicity of her demeanour, and in comparing them with the restless glances and petty affectations which, in the women he was accustomed to meet. betrayed the effort after admiration and applause. Her opinions and taste very nearly coincided with his own. They had similar ideas about the grandeur and glory of art and the noble aims to which genius ought to be devoted. Though Maurice had had many good friends and faithful comrades, he had never before found any one who could thoroughly sympathize with those highest and deepest thoughts and emotions which it is impossible to reveal except to one who can truly understand and respond to them. It was a delight greater than he had ever felt before to pour forth all his hopes and dreams to a listener from whom no supercilious coldness, no vapid commonplaces, or flippant mockery ever checked his enthusiasm, whose answering sympathy was always ready, and from whom no shadow of jealousy or possible rivalry was to be apprehended. And he found it almost as pleasant to read the hidden leaves in the fair volume of Marguerite's mind which had never been opened to mortal till they were unclosed for him. He showed her his sketches and described to her the pictures he intended to paint, and the studies he meant to pursue in Italy, while she listened with eager and delighted attention, entered into all his projects, shared all his hopes, and strengthened his high resolves with eloquent words flowing from a heart rich in impassioned feeling, and an imagination filled with visions of the beautiful and good. Every day Maurice's affection for this young girl grew stronger, till at last he ceased to remember or regret that one so richly gifted in every other way, was not endowed with the crowning charm Hermes and towards Prometheus, but that of beauty. her fear was for Prometheus and not for One evening, coming to the house at his herself, was marked by the way her form was usual hour, Maurice found Christian Kneller thrown as if to shield the object of her desitting in his favourite seat by the ivy-wreath-votion; the third nymph, kneeling close ed window, and looking at a sketch in one beside the tortured Titan, was gazing on him of Marguerite's portfolios. with a passionate intensity of love and admiration which seemed to absorb her whole being in his. "Come here, Maurice," he said, on seeing the young man," here is the last thing Marguerite has done." And he showed him a design from the Prometheus which Maurice had not seen before. It represented the hero vainly exhorted by Hermes to make peace with Zeus, while the Oceanides were mournfully grouped around and the vulture hovered behind, as if waiting to resume his horrid feast when the mission of Hermes should be ended. The drear and barren rocks of Mount Caucasus, without any living tree or plant to soften their austerity, were forcibly drawn; the figure of Prometheus, though half prostrate and manacled, was full of grandeur and majesty; his brow had all the power and might of a god, and Hermes appeared to shrink abashed from the lightning flash of his large, indignant eyes, and the withering scorn of his lip, which seemed uttering the sublime words the poet has given him: “Wherefore let the doubly pointed wrath of his fire be hurled at me, and Ether be torn piecemeal by thunder and spasm of savage blasts, and let the wind rock earth from her base, roots and all and, with stormy surge, mingle in rough tide the billows of the deep and the paths of the stars, and fling my body into black Tartarus, with a whirl in the stern eddies of necessity, -yet by no possible means shall he visit me with Death." At the feet of Prometheus reclined the Oceanides, three beautiful nymphs, and in their forms, attitudes and faces, the young artist had shown as much tenderness and grace as she had displayed strength and power in Prometheus. One nymph, her hand supporting her head, was weeping quietly and softly; another was shrinking back from "That is not much like woman's work, is it ?" asked Christian Kneller, watching Maurice's looks. "It is admirable, wonderful !" exclaimed Maurice warmly. "Yes, in the design, but there are plenty of faults in the execution." And Christian Kneller, who was an excellent critic, pointed out some of them. "All these can be remedied," said Maurice. "The sublime power and majesty of Prometheus, the cowering meanness of Hermes, the grace and beauty of the nymphs are perfect. I know nothing superior to them." "Softly, softly," my good friend," said Christian Kneller, "rein in those swift steeds which are always so ready to run away with your imagination. Marguerite is not quite equal to Michael Angelo in power yet, or to Raphael in grace! Yet she is a wonderful girl. My friends tell me it is time for me to get her well married, but I doubt if there is any man in Paris she would accept as a husband. Pierre Lacoste, the picture-dealer, wished to have her for a daughter-in-law, and his son is neither ugly nor stupid, I can tell you, but she would not hear of such a thing. She says she will never leave me, and when I asked her what she will do when I am gone, she says her art will be her best friend then, and she will not want any other." "Is she like her mother?" asked Maurice, trying to make the old man talk more of Marguerite. "No, her mother was an angel of goodness, but Marguerite has a stronger and more heroic mind. She is like one of Schiller's heroines, or the noble women of Shakespeare. Perhaps it was from her mother's father she inherited her genius, but she has courage, and strength which he never possessed, and depths of thought and feeling which lie beyond common reach; yet at the same time, she is simple, unselfish and free from vanity or display as a saint. No; she is not like her mother. Her mother was beautiful, and Marguerite is far from that." "Yes, sometimes she is beautiful," said Maurice; "when some noble or tender emotion stirs the hidden power of the soul within and makes it flash forth in all its brightness: then she is more than beautiful -she is divine." her mother's image, and I think she is beginning to grow like her again." Claire-the pale, ugly Claire-like that vision of grace and perfect loveliness! Such an idea seemed ridiculous to Maurice, and as the door opened the next instant and she entered the room, she had never seemed so plain in his eyes. Oh, is that mamma ?" cried Claire, running up to her father and kissing the miniature he held in his hand. "Dear beautiful mamma! I wish I were half as pretty." "Or half as good either, little one; that would be a better wish. But you never will, so don't hope it." Claire tossed her head, with a glance of coquettish defiance at Maurice. "I shall never be as good, that is certain, she said, "but I am not so sure about never being as pretty. You know, papa, you sometimes tell me I am like her." "So I do, little vanity," and pulling her towards him, her father took off the green net which confined her hair, and let the long silky masses fall on her shoulders. "Now there is a little likeness," he said. For the first time, Maurice noticed what a quantity of hair she had, and how beautiful its texture was. He thought she looked all the better for the loss of her net, but he could not see the likeness her father discov ered, and he said so. It was the portrait of a most lovely girl. The face was a pure oval in shape, every feature exquisitely formed, the skin of a snowy fairness, a faint, delicate bloom warming it into life, tinting the cheeks with the softest hue of the rose and deepening into a richer red on the tender sensitive mouth; the eyes were of the deepest and purest blue, half-veiled by long dark lashes; the hair of a rich golden brown, hanging in curls on her neck and shoulders; the whole face expressive of the most enchanting sweet-" but it is just because my hair is fair. He ness, purity and ideal grace. "It is beautiful indeed," exclaimed Maurice, with all an artist's delight in loveli ness. "Hadst thou seen her living thou mightest well have said so. That picture is only That picture is only the poorest shadow of what she was." Taking it from Maurice, Christian Kneller gazed at it steadfastly for a minute or two. "Claire looks like her sometimes," he said. "When she was an infant she was "Maurice thinks me so ugly," said Claire, putting up her lip with an air of disdain," likes black hair better." And she shot another saucy glance at Maurice. "You are quite right, Mademoiselle Claire," said Maurice, laughing. "That depends," said Christian Kneller, "black to-day, brown to-morrow, golden the day after is it not so, Maurice, my friend? Now, Claire, I will go into the garden. Call Marguerite." Claire called her sister, and then coming back, and looking at Maurice, while she gathered her rich tresses into the net from which they had seemed so ready to escape, she said, "There's one thing I know, and that is that I shall be handsome by the time Maurice comes back from Italy. Mère Monica says I am at the ugly age now, and that I shall be sure to improve, and I mean to grow handsome if it were only to astonish Monsieur Maurice. Do you hear me, Marguerite?" she asked as her sister entered. "What is it, Claire ?" "I am determined that Maurice shall find me beautiful when he returns from Italy." "Nothing will seem beautiful to Maurice after he comes from the Land of Beauty," said Marguerite, with rather a forced smile. "On the contrary," said Maurice, "I know I shall find nothing there as worthy of admiration as I have found here." He spoke with some agitation and looked at Marguerite, but she was helping her father to put on his cloak, and he was not sure that she had heard him. He hoped she had not taken his words as one of those commonplace gallantries, which he had soon. learned to feel were unworthy of her; but her quiet manner gave no indication, and her face was hidden. "There, Marguerite," said her father, "that cloak will do admirably. You are as careful in arranging the folds as if you were going to pose me for a tableau. Now, Maurice, I am ready; come and wheel me along. Children, you ought to make much of Maurice while you have him, for I don't know what we shall all do when he is gone. "Oh, she said she thought it was very likely." "Marguerite, how could you ?" he exclaimed, quickly turning towards her. But Marguerite's candid eyes answered him even before she could reply in words that Claire was only in jest, and he ought to have known it; while Claire's mocking laugh rang gaily through the garden. CHAPTER VI. UNDER THE RED AND WHITE ROSES. LITTLE later the same evening, when Christian Kneller sat smoking his pipe in front of the summer-house, and Claire, seated on the grass at his feet, was stringing beads for a neck-chain, Maurice stood watching Marguerite somewhat impatiently, as she tied up some flowers which a rain shower that morning had broken down. "Marguerite," he said, when she had finished her task, "let us go down the long walk and sit in the alcove. I want to talk to you." This long walk was bounded on one side by the garden wall, and on the other by a hedge of clipped laurels, and at the end was an alcove, with an antique, carved stone bench, over which the most luxuriant white and red roses hung their blossoms. The sun was near his setting when Maurice and Marguerite seated themselves on the old stone bench; the garden was flooded "But I mean to come back again," said with rosy light, the shadows of the peachMaurice. "Like a prince in a fairy tale," said Claire. But sometimes the princes do not come back, you know. They make new friends, and forget the old ones; and I dare say that's what you will do. I said so to Marguerite last night." "And what did she say ?” trees trained against the wall lay on the gravel walk, and two or three soft wavy crimson cloudlets floated so high above the western horizon, that they could see them from where they sat. "I wonder if the sky of Italy can have a richer or softer light than that we are looking at now," said Maurice. "I am sure her roses cannot be sweeter than these." And shaking the graceful canopy above their heads, the white and crimson rose leaves came showering down about them. "Perhaps some time I shall see an Italian sunset on your canvass," said Marguerite; "Sunset on the Val d'Arno, or in the Campagna, or on the Bay of Naples will be something very different from sunset in this little garden." The words, "It will be a sunset without the sun if you are not there," rose to Maurice's lips, but the gentle quietude of Marguerite's manner checked him, and gathering up the rose leaves he crushed them between his fingers. "Perhaps I shall not go to Italy," he said, after a pause. "At least not just yet-I hope not." "Not go to Italy!" exclaimed Marguerite. "You hope not? Why, Maurice, I thought it was the most cherished hope you had in the world." "Once it was. It used to be my thought by day and my dream by night. But I think of something else now;-now I have other dreams, other hopes." "What hope, what dream can be as dear to a painter as Italy? Maurice, tell me. what you mean." She looked anxiously up at him as she spoke. He was looking as anxiously down at her, and, bright as his eyes always were, she had never seen them flash as bright a light as shone in them now. "Marguerite, has it never occurred to you that if I go to Italy I must leave you? Is it nothing to you that we shall be parted for years, perhaps never see each other again?" She did not immediately answer, but bent her head among the roses, so that he could not see her face. spite of Claire's nonsense," she added, smiling a little wistfully," that you will not forget us while you are away, and that when you come back, a great painter, you will not disdain your old friends." "How quietly you say it, Marguerite ; how calm and indifferent you are. But I am not so indifferent; I am not so calm. It is agony, it is death to me to think of leaving you because I love you." He bent eagerly towards her, but she was silent, and her head drooped lower than before. "Marguerite, Marguerite," he repeated, passionately, "don't you know that I love you? Speak to me, look at me, my Marguerite!" She was still silent and trembling from surprise and agitation, but she raised her face to meet his eager glance. It was enough, and drawing her towards him, Maurice said, softly, "Marguerite loves me, too, a little ; does she not?" And though Marguerite could only murmur one or two words, Maurice knew that her heart was all his own. At that moment Claire came running towards them. "Marguerite, Marguerite,' she called out, "I want you to get me a clasp for my necklace." "Go away, Claire," said Maurice; "Marguerite cannot go with you now." "I suppose she may come if she chooses without asking your permission, Monsieur Maurice," cried Claire. Maurice," cried Claire. "Come along, Marguerite. Why can't you come? What are you doing?" "Talking about Italy," said Maurice. "You are always talking about Italy, or something just as stupid," said Claire. "I wonder you are not tired of each other; but I daresay you often are, if the truth were known." And with a vague consciousness that she had suddenly intruded on an atmos "Is it nothing to you, Marguerite?" he re- phere filled with some emotion, intense, but to peated. "Oh, yes, Maurice," she said, with an effort, "I shall be very sorry, we shall all be very sorry to lose you, but I will hope, in her incomprehensible-half-frightened, too, like one who had stepped unwittingly within some charmed circle, she ran back to her father. |