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Page 19
Mlle d'Orbe only replied by a bow; and the lady had scarcely
withdrawn, when taking her bonnet and shawl, the young artist embraced
her brother, took Henry by the hand, and said to him: 'Bring me to
your mother, my child.'
Henry flew rather than walked; Mlle d'Orbe could with difficulty keep
up with him. Both ascended to the fifth storey in the house in the Rue
Descartes, where this poor family lived. When they reached the door,
Henry tapped softly at it. Mme G---- opened it.
'Mamma,' said the boy, trembling with emotion, 'this lady is an
artist: she is come to take papa's portrait.' The poor woman, who had
not hoped for such an unexpected happiness, wept as she pressed to her
lips the hands of Mlle d'Orbe, and could not find words to express
her gratitude.
The portrait was commenced at once; and the young artist worked with
zeal and devotion, for her admiration of the gifted and unfortunate
man was intense. She resolved to make the piece valuable as a work of
art, for posterity might one day demand the portrait of this gifted
man, and her duty as a painter was to represent him in his noblest
aspect.
Long sittings fatigued the invalid; so it was resolved to take two
each day, and the young artist came regularly twice every day. As by
degrees the strength of the sick man declined, the portrait advanced.
At length, at the end of twelve days, it was finished: this was about
a week before the death of M. G----.
At the same time that she was painting this portrait, Mlle d'Orbe
worked with ardour on her large painting, always hoping to have it
ready in time. This hope did not fail her until some days before the
1st of February. There was but a week longer to work: and this year
she must abandon the idea of sending to the Exposition.
Some artists who had seen her picture had encouraged her very much;
she could count, in their opinion, on brilliant success. This she
desired with all her heart: first, from that noble thirst of glory
which God has implanted in the souls of artists; and, secondly, from
the influence it would have on the prospects of her little Jules, whom
she loved with a mother's tenderness, and whom she wished to be able
to endow with all the treasures of education. This disappointment,
these long hours of toil, rendered so vain at the very moment when
she looked forward to receive her reward, so depressed the young
artist, that she became dangerously ill.
Mlle d'Orbe had very few friends, as she was an orphan, and lived in
great retirement; she found herself therefore completely left to the
care of her young attendant. When Jules met Henry at the
drawing-school he told him of his sister's illness: Henry informed his
mother, and Mme G---- immediately hastened to Mlle d'Orbe, whom she
found in the delirium of a fever from which she had been suffering for
some days. The servant said that her mistress had refused to send for
a doctor, pretending that her illness did not signify. Mme G----,
terrified at the state of her young friend, went out and soon returned
with Dr Raymond.
The invalid was delirious: she unceasingly repeated the
words--'portrait,' 'Anna Boleyn,' 'exposition,' 'fortune,'
'disappointed hopes;' which plainly indicated the cause of her
illness, and brought tears into the eyes of Mme G----. 'Alas!' she
said, 'it is on my account she suffers: I am the cause of her not
finishing her picture. Doctor, I am very unfortunate.'
'All may be repaired,' replied the doctor: 'if you will promise to
nurse the invalid, I will answer for her recovery.'
In fact, Mme G---- never left the sick-bed of Mlle d'Orbe. The
doctor visited her twice in the day, and their united care soon
restored the health of the interesting artist.
Mademoiselle was scarcely convalescent when she went to the Exposition
of paintings at the Louvre, of which she had heard nothing--the doctor
and Mme G---- having, as she thought, avoided touching on a subject
which might pain her. She passed alone through the galleries, crowded
with distinguished artists and elegantly-dressed ladies, saying to
herself that perhaps her picture would have been as good as many which
attracted the admiration of the crowd. She was thus walking sadly on,
looking at the spot where she had hoped to have seen her Anna Boleyn,
when she found herself stopped by a group of artists. They were
unanimous in their praises. 'This is the best portrait in the
Exposition,' said one. 'A celebrated engraver is about to buy from the
artist the right to engrave this portrait for the new edition of the
author's works,' said another. 'We are very fortunate in having so
faithful a likeness of so distinguished a writer as M. G----.'
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