at the sign of the cat and racket-第14节

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rigid　as　a　rock；　and　his　eyes　turned　alternately　on　Augustine；　on　the
accusing　dress。　The　frightened　wife；　half…dead；　as　she　watched　her
husband's　changeful　browthat　terrible　browsaw　the　expressive
furrows　gathering　like　clouds；　then　she　felt　her　blood　curdling　in　her
veins　when；　with　a　glaring　look；　and　in　a　deep　hollow　voice；　he　began
to　question　her：

〃Where　did　you　find　that　picture？〃

〃The　Duchess　de　Carigliano　returned　it　to　me。〃

〃You　asked　her　for　it？〃

〃I　did　not　know　that　she　had　it。〃

The　gentleness；　or　rather　the　exquisite　sweetness　of　this　angel's
voice；　might　have　touched　a　cannibal；　but　not　an　artist　in　the
clutches　of　wounded　vanity。

〃It　is　worthy　of　her！〃　exclaimed　the　painter　in　a　voice　of　thunder。　〃I
will　be　avenged！〃　he　cried；　striding　up　and　down　the　room。　〃She　shall
die　of　shame；　I　will　paint　her！　Yes；　I　will　paint　her　as　Messalina
stealing　out　at　night　from　the　palace　of　Claudius。〃

〃Theodore！〃　said　a　faint　voice。

〃I　will　kill　her！〃

〃My　dear〃

〃She　is　in　love　with　that　little　cavalry　colonel；　because　he　rides
well〃

〃Theodore！〃

〃Let　me　be！〃　said　the　painter　in　a　tone　almost　like　a　roar。

It　would　be　odious　to　describe　the　whole　scene。　In　the　end　the　frenzy
of　passion　prompted　the　artist　to　acts　and　words　which　any　woman　not
so　young　as　Augustine　would　have　ascribed　to　madness。

At　eight　o'clock　next　morning　Madame　Guillaume；　surprising　her
daughter；　found　her　pale；　with　red　eyes；　her　hair　in　disorder；　holding
a　handkerchief　soaked　with　tears；　while　she　gazed　at　the　floor　strewn
with　the　torn　fragments　of　a　dress　and　the　broken　fragments　of　a　large
gilt　picture…frame。　Augustine；　almost　senseless　with　grief；　pointed　to
the　wreck　with　a　gesture　of　deep　despair。

〃I　don't　know　that　the　loss　is　very　great！〃　cried　the　old　mistress　of
the　Cat　and　Racket。　〃It　was　like　you；　no　doubt；　but　I　am　told　that
there　is　a　man　on　the　boulevard　who　paints　lovely　portraits　for　fifty
crowns。〃

〃Oh；　mother！〃

〃Poor　child；　you　are　quite　right；〃　replied　Madame　Guillaume；　who
misinterpreted　the　expression　of　her　daughter's　glance　at　her。　〃True；
my　child；　no　one　ever　can　love　you　as　fondly　as　a　mother。　My　darling；
I　guess　it　all；　but　confide　your　sorrows　to　me；　and　I　will　comfort
you。　Did　I　not　tell　you　long　ago　that　the　man　was　mad！　Your　maid　has
told　me　pretty　stories。　Why；　he　must　be　a　perfect　monster！〃

Augustine　laid　a　finger　on　her　white　lips；　as　if　to　implore　a　moment's
silence。　During　this　dreadful　night　misery　had　led　her　to　that　patient
resignation　which　in　mothers　and　loving　wives　transcends　in　its
effects　all　human　energy；　and　perhaps　reveals　in　the　heart　of　women
the　existence　of　certain　chords　which　God　has　withheld　from　men。



An　inscription　engraved　on　a　broken　column　in　the　cemetery　at
Montmartre　states　that　Madame　de　Sommervieux　died　at　the　age　of
twenty…seven。　In　the　simple　words　of　this　epitaph　one　of　the　timid
creature's　friends　can　read　the　last　scene　of　a　tragedy。　Every　year；
on　the　second　of　November；　the　solemn　day　of　the　dead；　he　never　passes
this　youthful　monument　without　wondering　whether　it　does　not　need　a
stronger　woman　than　Augustine　to　endure　the　violent　embrace　of　genius？

〃The　humble　and　modest　flowers　that　bloom　in　the　valley；〃　he　reflects；
〃perish　perhaps　when　they　are　transplanted　too　near　the　skies；　to　the
region　where　storms　gather　and　the　sun　is　scorching。〃









End