“It seems to me he’s very low, very low!”
Rosanette was up all night with the child.
In the morning she went to look for Frederick.
“Just come and look at him. He doesn’t move any longer.”
In fact, he was dead. She took him up, shook him, clasped him in her arms, calling him most tender names, covered him with kisses, broke into sobs, turned herself from one side to the other in a state of distraction, tore her hair, uttered a number of shrieks, and then let herself sink on the edge of the divan, where she lay with her mouth open and a flood of tears rushing from her wildly-glaring eyes.
Then a torpor fell upon her, and all became still in the apartment. The furniture was overturned. Two or three napkins were lying on the floor. It struck six. The night-light had gone out.
Frederick, as he gazed at the scene, could almost believe that he was dreaming. His heart was oppressed with anguish. It seemed to him that this death was only a beginning, and that behind it was a worse calamity, which was just about to come on.
Suddenly, Rosanette said in an appealing tone:
“We’ll preserve the body—shall we not?”
She wished to have the dead child embalmed. There were many objections to this. The principal one, in Frederick’s opinion, was that the thing was impracticable in the case of children so young. A portrait would be better. She adopted this idea. He wrote a line to Pellerin, and Delphine hastened to deliver it.
Pellerin arrived speedily, anxious by this display of zeal to efface all recollection of his former conduct. The first thing he said was:
“Poor little angel! Ah, my God, what a misfortune!”
But gradually (the artist in him getting the upper hand) he declared that nothing could be made out of those yellowish eyes, that livid face, that it was a real case of still-life, and would, therefore, require very great talent to treat it effectively; and so he murmured:
“Oh, ’tisn’t easy—’tisn’t easy!”
“No matter, as long as it is lifelike,” urged Rosanette.
“Pooh! what do I care about a thing being lifelike? Down with Realism! ’Tis the spirit that must be portrayed by the painter! Let me alone! I am going to try to conjure up what it ought to be!”
He reflected, with his left hand clasping his brow, and with his right hand clutching his elbow; then, all of a sudden:
“Ha, I have an idea! a pastel! With coloured mezzotints, almost spread out flat, a lovely model could be obtained with the outer surface alone!”
He sent the chambermaid to look for his box of colours; then, having a chair under his feet and another by his side, he began to throw out great touches with as much complacency as if he had drawn them in accordance with the bust. He praised the little Saint John of Correggio, the Infanta Rosa of Velasquez, the milk-white flesh-tints of Reynolds, the distinction of Lawrence, and especially the child with long hair that sits in Lady Gower’s lap.
“Besides, could you find anything more charming than these little toads? The type of the sublime (Raphael has proved it by his Madonnas) is probably a mother with her child?”
Rosanette, who felt herself stifling, went away; and presently Pellerin said:
“Well, about Arnoux; you know what has happened?”
“No! What?”
“However, it was bound to end that way!”
“What has happened, might I ask?”
“Perhaps by this time he is—Excuse me!”
The artist got up in order to raise the head of the little corpse higher.
“You were saying—” Frederick resumed.
And Pellerin, half-closing his eyes, in order to take his dimensions better:
“I was saying that our friend Arnoux is perhaps by this time locked up!”
Then, in a tone of satisfaction:
“Just give a little glance at it. Is that the thing?”
“Yes, ’tis quite right. But about Arnoux?”
Pellerin laid down his pencil.
“As far as I could understand, he was sued by one Mignot, an intimate friend of Regimbart—a long-headed fellow that, eh? What an idiot! Just imagine! one day—”
“What! it’s not Regimbart that’s in question, is it?”
“It is, indeed! Well, yesterday evening, Arnoux had to produce twelve thousand francs; if not, he was a ruined man.”
“Oh! this perhaps is exaggerated,” said Frederick.
“Not a bit. It looked to me a very serious business, very serious!”
At that moment Rosanette reappeared, with red spots under her eyes, which glowed like dabs of paint. She sat down near the drawing and gazed at it. Pellerin made a sign to the other to hold his tongue on account of her. But Frederick, without minding her:
“Nevertheless, I can’t believe—”
“I tell you I met him yesterday,” said the artist, “at seven o’clock in the evening, in the Rue Jacob. He had even taken the precaution to have his passport with him; and he spoke about embarking from Havre, he and his whole camp.”
“What! with his wife?”
“No doubt. He is too much of a family man to live by himself.”
“And are you sure of this?”
“Certain, faith! Where do you expect him to find twelve thousand francs?”
Frederick took two or three turns round the room. He panted for breath, bit his lips, and then snatched up his hat.
“Where are you going now?” said Rosanette.
He made no reply, and the next moment he had disappeared.
XVIII
An Auction
Twelve thousand francs should be procured, or, if not, he would see Madame Arnoux no more; and until now there had lingered in his breast an unconquerable hope. Did she not, as it were, constitute the very substance of his heart, the very basis of his life? For some minutes he went staggering along the footpath, his mind tortured with anxiety, and nevertheless gladdened by the thought that he
