Countess Erika's Apprenticeship Part 43

"Yes; I think to-morrow will be the last sitting; and then----"

"And then----?" she repeated.

"Then it will all be over!"

There was a pause. He turned his head aside. Suddenly a low sweet voice, that went directly to his heart, said, softly, "Then you will wish to know nothing more of me!"

He started as if from an electric shock; the room swam before his eyes, when----the door opened, the Countess Muhlberg appeared, and Lozoncyi arose to take leave, thanking Heaven for this unexpected interruption.

"Will you not wait until my grandmother returns?" Erika asked.

"Unfortunately, it is impossible."

"Adieu, then. To-morrow at eleven," she called after him. He made no reply.

It lightened and thundered all through the night, but scarcely a drop of rain fell; the air the next morning was as sultry as it had been on the previous day.

When Erika, with her grandmother, entered Lozoncyi's garden punctually at eleven o'clock, everything there looked withered and drooping.

Lozoncyi himself was pale; his motions had lost their wonted elasticity, and his face was grave. When the old Countess asked him if he were ill, he ascribed his condition to the sirocco.

Erika noticed that there were no fresh flowers in the studio: he had taken no pains to decorate it for his guests, and she was conscious of a foreboding of misfortune.

"I must subject you to some fatigue to-day, I fear, that the picture may at last be finished," he said, speaking very quickly. "You must have patience this last time. I should not like to give you a picture that was not as good as I knew how to make it."

"You have already bestowed too much of your valuable time upon the Countess Erika," the old Countess said, kindly.

"Indeed? do you think so?" he murmured, with a bitterness he had never displayed before. "Do you think we artists should not be allowed to devote so much time to enjoyment? 'Tis true," he added, in an undertone, "that we have to pay for it."

Erika looked at him in startled wonder: his words were perfectly incomprehensible to her, but the expression of his pale face was one of such anguish that her compa.s.sion, always too easily aroused, increased momentarily.

As usual, she repaired to the adjoining room to change her dress with Lucrezia's a.s.sistance. When she returned to the studio Lozoncyi was standing with his back to the chimney-piece, his hands in the pockets of his jacket, while her grandmother, sitting opposite him in her favourite chair, was asking him, "What is the matter with you, Lozoncyi? Have you lost money in the stock market?"

He shook his head. "No," he said, trying to answer the question in the same jesting tone as that in which it had been asked.

"Then what is wrong? Confide in me."

He cleared his throat. "In fact, I----" he began.

Then, perceiving Erika, "Ah, ready so soon?" he cried. "Let us go to work."

She could not find the pose immediately: he was obliged to move her right arm. His hand was as hot as if burning with fever, and he had scarcely touched the girl's arm with it when he withdrew it hastily.

He went to the easel, gazed long and with half-closed eyes at his model, then turned and began to paint.

Usually there was a constant flow of conversation between Erika and himself. To-day he spoke not a word; perfect silence reigned in the studio; the turning of the leaves of the novel which the old Countess was reading and the twittering of the birds in the garden outside, were audible; one could even hear now and then the sweep of the brush upon the canvas.

Thus an hour pa.s.sed. Then, stepping back a few paces from the picture, he fixed his eyes upon Erika, added a few touches with his brush, and looked from her to the portrait.

"Look at it yourself," he said, with a hard emphasis on each syllable.

"So far as I can finish it, it is done. I cannot improve it!"

Both ladies went and stood before it. "I do not know whether it is like," said Erika, "but it certainly is a masterpiece."

"It is magnificent!" exclaimed her grandmother. "You have flattered the child, and have done it most delicately,--_en homme d'esprit_."

"Flattered!" he cried. "Hardly! I have tried to produce the expression which not every one can see in the face. That is the only merit of my poor performance: otherwise it is a daub. I have never seemed to myself so poor a painter as when at work upon this picture." As he spoke he tossed the entire sheaf of brushes which he held in his hand into the chimney place.

"What are you about?" exclaimed the old Countess. "You are in a very odd mood to-day."

"Oh, the brushes were worn out," he replied. "I could not have painted another picture with them."

The blood mounted to Erika's cheek with gratification. She understood him. His agitation and sorrow did not disquiet her now, so convinced was she that it was in her power to dispel them by a single word.

"You must leave the picture with me for a time. When it is dry I will varnish it and send it to you: I must ask you, however, to what address?"

"I hope we shall still continue to see you," the old Countess replied.

"I a.s.sure you that I entertain a sincere friendship for you. The visits to your studio, although my part in them has been a secondary one, have come to be a pleasant habit, which I shall find it hard to discontinue.

We shall always be glad to welcome you wherever we are."

Erika, meanwhile, had approached the painter. "I do not know how to thank you," she said.

"I have done nothing for which thanks are due," he rejoined. "The thanks should come from me. All I ask of you is to bestow a thought now and then upon the poor painter who has enjoyed the sight of you for so long. No, there is one thing more. You will allow me to make a copy of the picture for myself?"

The grandmother interposed: "Go change your dress, Erika."

And Lozoncyi asked, "Will you take your portmanteau with you, or shall I send it to you?"

Erika went into the next room. Hurriedly, impatiently, she took off the white gown and put on her street dress. "Stuff everything into the portmanteau," she ordered Lucrezia, slipping a gold coin into the servant's hand.

She was in a strange mood: she felt her heart throb up in her throat.

"Shall I have one moment in which to speak to him alone?" she asked herself.

"Ready? You have been quick," her grandmother said when she re-entered the studio. "Have you summoned our gondola, Lozoncyi?"

"Yes, Countess. I wonder it is not here. Meanwhile, I must cut the roses in my garden for you. I cannot tell for whom they will bloom when you come no longer."

He went out into the garden. For one moment Erika hesitated; then she followed him. The skies were one uniform gray; every branch and blossom drooped wearily. The roses which Lozoncyi tried to cut for Erika fell to pieces beneath his touch, strewing the earth with pink and white petals.

Lozoncyi did not look around, but cut unmercifully, with a large pair of garden scissors. Before he knew it, Erika stood beside him. "I may be overbold," she half whispered, lightly touching his arm, "but I cannot help feeling that I have a right to know your troubles. Is anything distressing you?"

He looked at her and tried to smile. "To say farewell distresses me, Countess, as you must be aware."

She was overpowered by timidity, but her compa.s.sion gave her courage.

She collected herself: they must understand each other. "If to say farewell really distresses you, I--I cannot see why it should be said,"

she whispered. The tears stood in her eyes, and he----? He was ashy pale, and the roses dropped from his hands.

At this moment the bell rang loudly, and a woman's voice asked, in French with a strong Prussian accent, "Does the artist, Paul Lozoncyi, live here?"