Artist and Model Part 3

It is a kind of magnetic attraction of the senses, a nervous shock such as sensitive natures feel in case of sudden emotion--say, at an unexpected chord in music, a too pungent odor, a glorious sunset, a glance into s.p.a.ce from the top of a high precipice. There is surprise and a dazed feeling. They last but a second or two, and are like a dream. Then comes forgetfulness, until a new meeting or a memory, though only indirectly evoked, reawakens the undefined and unavowed feeling, and gives double vigor to the sensation originally felt.

Lise Olsdorf and Paul Meyrin unconsciously underwent this purely physiological experience.

That evening, when they were near each other again at dinner, there was an exchange of looks which troubled them. The artist, already rather spoiled by his successes with women, was quite ready to think that the princess looked on him with favorable eyes. Conceit thus operated with him. Up to now his conquests had not been of so high an order; he soon fancied that he was deeply in love with Lise Olsdorf. The simple truth was that he desired her, and that as much out of vanity as pa.s.sion.

Unfortunately, Paul had no idea how to set about paying his court to a "great lady." He had heard a friend maintain the paradox that the best means one can use with women is to treat them by contraries; scrupulous politeness, tender care, timid and romantic declarations, for women of the town, and exactly the opposite for women in good society. But if the latter way is successful, as unhappily it too often is, thanks to the manners of to-day, Paul was not convinced that it was; besides which, he had no apt.i.tude for the part of a coa.r.s.e libertine, nor did he think that the princess was a woman to put up with a want of respect. Without any preconceived plan, then, he made up his mind to wait until a favorable occasion should offer itself.

As for Lise Olsdorf, without a.n.a.lyzing her own emotions, she felt herself so strongly drawn to the handsome stranger that, fearing to betray herself, she was during dinner less gracious to him than she ordinarily was to guests in general newly arrived at the chateau; nor could she without a tremor think of the approaching moment when, after the Russian custom, the mistress of the house, standing on the threshold of the dining-room, receives the homage of her guests, who, pa.s.sing one by one before her, each kiss her hand, while her lips touch their forehead.

From modesty, or perhaps designedly, Paul Meyrin was among the last few.

When Lise offered him her hand he pressed his lips to it in so long a kiss that she withdrew it sharply and fell back a step, without giving him the expected kiss in return.

Fearful that he had offended her, he raised his head quickly to ask the question by a look; but the princess had turned from him and was moving toward the rooms where the guests spent their evenings according to their varying fancies. Some liked music, others would rather talk.

There was dancing, too; but most of the visitors were to be seen gathered round the play-tables. Though the prince was the declared enemy of gambling as an amus.e.m.e.nt, he would not deny his guests the pleasure.

Throughout the evening, try as he might, Paul could not get near Lise; his eyes did not meet hers once. She retired early, and had slipped away before he had guessed that she was going.

The next day he hardly saw her, for she did not come down to dinner, the prince making her excuses to their friends on the plea of slight indisposition. After this day, however, Lise, as if she had schooled herself to calmness, again appeared gracious and smiling, with that care for the comfort of her guests that she always showed in fulfilling her duties as mistress of the household.

Still, calm and indifferent as she made herself appear before the artist, she doubtless distrusted her strength too much to risk a _tete-a-tete_, for Paul never found himself quite alone with her. When he greeted her at meeting, she had always to respond at that moment to some other greeting as well. She returned his bow hurriedly, with downcast eyes and an absent look; and if she met him by chance in pa.s.sing through the fencing-room, in one of the vestibules, or at any other part of the house for the moment deserted, she quickened her step, though not too markedly, as he accompanied her, and, beginning to speak on different topics, she would continue to do so without giving him the chance to speak, until they had encountered some one else.

Paul Meyrin understood the tactics adopted by the mistress of Pampeln.

He was vain enough to infer that she feared him, and in consequence grew more charmed with her, and the more decided to declare his love.

Things had gone on thus for a week, and the Roumanian had not yet found the chance he watched for, the more eagerly in proportion as he saw that the princess often seemed nervous, preoccupied, and fanciful, when one evening the prince announced to his guests an interesting hunting-party for the following day.

A few minutes later Lise retired, bending on Paul a look which he caught but hesitated to give a meaning. Was it on her part a sort of haughty defiance? Or was it, on the contrary, a kind of encouragement? Did she mean, "You dare go no further, and you are prudent," or "Why dare not you? I am waiting!"

Whichever it was, the painter slept little that night, and rose at daylight. He supposed he must be one of the first of the guests stirring in the house, but when he reached the court-yard he found the princess there before him, on horseback, though it was only just seven o'clock.

Pierre Olsdorf and his usual companions were to start for the banks of the Wandau, there to hunt the stag; and Lise had determined to accompany her husband's friends as far as the Elva farm, three leagues distant from the chateau, and cultivated by one Soublaieff, an old retainer of the prince, whom he had brought from his estates in the Crimea and for whom he had a great affection.

At this early hour, under the oblique rays of the sun, the great court-yard of Pampeln was a charming sight for a painter. There was a noise, a movement, and a kaleidoscope of colors not easy to describe.

Excited by the barking of the hounds, which the footmen held coupled in leashes, by the blasts on the horns of the huntsmen giving the signal for the start, and by the different orders that were being shouted one over the other, the horses, with erect ears and waving manes, pawed the ground impatiently under their riders, who all wore the correct hunting costume, which the prince had been one of the first to make fashionable in Russia--wide breeches, high boots, and a double-breasted tunic, caught in at the waist with a leathern belt, in which a Circa.s.sian dagger was stuck.

In front of the flight of steps leading up to the house were the carriages for General Podoi's wife and her friends. The horses were superb creatures which the drivers could scarcely control.

The artist saw none of these things, however. His eyes were fixed on the princess, and could not quit her. In her riding-habit, a masterpiece of some great Parisian costumer, which showed the symmetry of her form and the rich swell of her bust, Lise Olsdorf was wonderfully beautiful.

Under the coquettish hat, made in the Louis XV. style, her clearly cut face had a brave and almost saucy look. Her little gloved hand held firmly and gracefully the reins of the splendid thorough-bred she was riding. Paul, in admiration, stopped short at a few paces' distance, forgetting even to salute her.

Not until the princess spoke did he recover himself.

"Are you not going to join us?" she asked in an amused tone. "What are you thinking?"

"Pardon me, madame, pardon me," said the painter, doffing his hat. "I was admiring."

He had not dared to say, "I was admiring you," but Lise Olsdorf understood.

"That is not a reply," she said, smiling. "See, yonder are two horses ready saddled. But perhaps you are not a rider, and I warn you that our animals are pretty spirited."

"I should not be one of my race or my country, madame, if I were not a horseman."

At a sign from him the groom holding the two horses brought them up and gave him one. Not using the stirrup, he leaped into the saddle.

"Bravo!" exclaimed the prince, coming up at that moment to ask his wife if he should give the order for a start. "Are you going with us?"

"Only as a companion on the road, prince," Paul replied, taking a whip--the _najayka_, as it is called--that one of the footmen handed to him.

The princess having replied to her husband that she was ready, the master of Pampeln gave a signal, the horns sounded, the dogs barked twice as loud as before, the riders gave the reins to their mounts, and the party set out.

Five minutes later the whole troop was galloping along the road to Elva.

It was about twenty minutes from the start when, taking advantage of the fact that Pierre Olsdorf was in earnest conference with his _stremenoy_--as the Russians call the chief huntsman--Paul Meyrin drew near to the princess. As usual, she was encircled by a crowd of adorers, among whom was naturally found that good fellow Podoi, who, in spite of his age, was still a daring sportsman.

It seemed as if the old soldier had foretold the truth in a.s.suring the Countess Barineff, to persuade her to accept his name, that in marrying him she would be restoring his youth to him. He had never been more smart.

"I must compliment you, monsieur," said Lise Olsdorf to the young painter when she saw him take up a position at some paces from her, after making his horse execute a curvet that was both clever and daring.

The fact is, Paul Meyrin, without belonging to any great school of horsemanship, rode as few men can ride. His horse, a hardy little mare of the country, full of fire, at first had tried all she could to unseat him, but soon finding that she was under her master, she had yielded, her mouth full of foam and her flanks quivering.

Paul, replying only by a bow to the young woman's compliment, joined the others who were cantering near her.

In rather more than another half hour they came to the Elva farm, where such as did not accompany the prince further were to rest a short time before returning to Pampeln.

Forewarned by a huntsman sent on in advance, the farmer Soublaieff was there with his people, but before any one else had approached the princess, the painter was by her side and offering his hand.

A little surprised at his quick movement, Lise Olsdorf hesitated for a moment; but feeling that to refuse the aid of the young foreigner would be to confess, by implication, that she thought him dangerous, she swayed forward, and he lifted her to the ground so lightly and cleverly, and with such strength of arm, that the sensation was a pleasant one for her.

"Thanks, monsieur," she said, lifting the long skirt of her riding-habit over her arm. "Do you stay with us, then?"

"I am not a sportsman, Madame la Princess," he replied, "so that I ask permission to return with you to Pampeln."

"You know well that all our guests are perfectly free to do what best pleases themselves."

And Lise Olsdorf, who was unwilling to approve in any other form the artist's intention, left him, to respond affectionately to the salutation of a young girl barely sixteen years old who was advancing to meet her.

It was Vera, Soublaieff's daughter.

Like most women of Southern Russia, Vera was a decided brunette. From the purity of her features, the perfect oval of her face, and the smallness of her head, she might have been taken to be of Grecian origin. Her large eyes, shaded by long, up-curled lashes, were unspeakably gentle: a virginal smile was constantly playing about her scarlet and slightly parted lips, revealing the pearly teeth. From the national head-gear that she wore two long braids of hair hung, reaching to below the waist, which was defined by her linen dress of various bright colors. Reared at the chateau until she was fifteen years old, Vera spoke French with a pure accent, had some knowledge of music, and, through her natural elegance of movement of bearing, was a charming child.

Her father, who loved her fondly, could not make up his mind to part with her to the princess, who had several times asked him to do so, wishing that Vera should be a sort of elder sister to her little son.

Paul Meyrin was too much of an artist not to pay homage to Vera's beauty. The princess had kissed her tenderly. Thinking that it could not but please Lise Olsdorf, he said, approaching her:

"What a lovely young girl that is. I supposed that only women of your station in life could be so perfectly beautiful."

"You see that you were mistaken, monsieur," the princess replied, rather ungraciously. "Vera is, in fact, very pretty. She is just as good and as modest, and I love her very much."