Visionaries Part 16

The widow was not long without offers. Her usual answer was to point out the tiny Berenice, playing in the garden with her nurse. Then a landscape painter, one of the Barbizon group, appeared, and, as a former a.s.sociate of Rudolph Cot, and a man of means and position, his suit was successful. To the astonishment of Villiers-le-Bel, Madame Valerie Cot became Madame Theophile Mineur; on the day of the wedding little Berenice--named after a particularly uncanny heroine of Poe's by his relentless French admirer--scratched the long features of her stepfather. The entire town accepted this as a distressing omen and it was not deceived; Berenice Cot grew up in the likeness of a determined young lady whose mother weakly endured her tyranny, whose new father secretly feared her.

At the age of eighteen she had refused nearly all the young painters between Ecouen and Domaine de Vallieres; and had spent several summers in England, and four years at a Lausanne school. She feared neither man nor mouse, and once, when she saw a famous Polish pianist walking on his terrace at Morges, she took him by the hand, asked for a lock of his hair, and was not refused by the amiable virtuoso. After that Berenice was the acknowledged leader of her cla.s.s. The teachers trembled before her sparkling, wrathful black eyes. At home she ruled the household, and as she was an heiress no one dared to contradict her. Her contempt for her stepfather was only matched by her impatience in the company of young men. She pretended--so her intimates said--to loathe them.

"Frivolous idiots" was her mildest form of reproof when an ambitious boy would trench upon her pet art theories or attempt to flirt. She called her mother "the lamb" and her stepfather "the parrot"--he had a long curved nose; all together she was very unlike the pattern French girl.

Her favourite lounging place was the wall, and after she had draped it with a scarlet shawl and perched herself upon it, she was only too happy to worry any unfortunate man who presented himself.

The night Hubert Falcroft called at Chalfontaine Mademoiselle elise Evergonde told him that her cousin, Madame Mineur, and Berenice had gone in the direction of the pool. He had walked over from the station, preferring the open air to the stuffy train. So a few vigorous steps brought to his view mother and daughter as they slowly moved, encircling each other's waist. The painter paused and noted the general loveliness of the picture; the setting sun had splashed the blue basin overhead with delicate pinks, and in the fretted edges of some high floating cloud-fleece there was a glint of fire. The smooth gra.s.s parquet swept gracefully to the semicircle of dark green trees, against the foliage of which the virginal white of the gowns was transposed to an ivory tone by the blue and green keys in sky and forest.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed, "paint in the foreground a few peac.o.c.ks languidly dragging their gorgeous tails, and you have a Watteau or a Fragonard--no, a Monticelli! Only, Monticelli would have made the peac.o.c.ks the central motive with the women and trees as an arabesque."

He was a portraitist who solemnly believed in the principle of decoration--character must take its chances when he painted. Falcroft was successful with women's heads, which he was fond of depicting in misty shadows framed by luxurious accessories. They called him the Master of Chiffon, at Julien's; when he threw overboard his old friends and joined the new crowd, their indignation was great. His t.i.tle now was the Ribbon Impressionist, and at the last salon of the Independents, Falcroft had the mortification of seeing a battalion of his former companions at anchor in front of his picture, The Lady with the Cat, which they reviled for at least an hour. He was an American who had lived his life long in France, and only showed race in his nervous, brilliant technic and his fondness for bizarre subjects....

He had not stood many minutes when a young voice saluted him:--

"Ah, Monsieur Falcroft. Come, come quickly. Mamma is delighted to see you!" His mental picture was decomposed by the repeated waving of the famous shawl, which only came into view as Berenice turned. Hubert regretted that she had not worn it--the peac.o.c.ks could have been exchanged for its vivid note of scarlet. Pretending not to have heard her speech, he gravely saluted the mother and daughter. But Berenice was unabashed.

"Mamma was wondering if you would visit us to-night, Monsieur Falcroft, when I saw you staring at us as if we were ghosts." A burst of malicious laughter followed.

"Berenice, Berenice," remonstrated her mother, "when will you cease such tasteless remarks!" She blushed in her pretty matronly fashion and put her hand on her daughter's mouth.

"Don't mind her, Madame Mineur! I like to meet a French girl with a little unconventionality. Berenice reminds me now of an English girl--"

"Or one of your own countrywomen!" interrupted Berenice; "and please--_Miss_, after this, I am a grown young lady." He joined in the merriment. She was not to be resisted and he wished--no, he did not wish--but he thought, that if he were younger, what gay days he might have. Yet he admired her mother much more. Elaine Cot-Mineur was an old-fashioned woman, gentle, reserved, and at the age when her beauty had a rare autumnal quality--the very apex of its perfection; in a few years, in a year, perhaps, the change would come and crabbed winter set in. He particularly admired the oval of her face, her soft brown eyes, and the harmonious contour of her head. He saw her instantly with a painter's imagination--filmy lace must modulate about her head like a dreamy aureole; across her figure a scarf of yellow silk; in her hands he would paint a crystal vase, and in the vase one rose with a heart of sulphur. And her eyes would gaze as if she saw the symbol of her age--the days slipping away like ropes of sand from her grasp. He could make a fascinating portrait he thought, and he said so. Instantly another peal of irritating laughter came from Berenice:--

"Don't tell papa. He is _so_ jealous of the portrait he tried to make of mamma last summer. You never saw it! It's awful. It's hid away behind a lot of canvases in the atelier. It looks like a Cezanne still-life. I'll show it to you sometime." Her mother revealed annoyance by compressing her lips. Falcroft said nothing. They had skirted the pool in single file, for the path was narrow and the denseness of the trees caused a partial obscurity. When they reached the wall, the moon was rising in the eastern sky.

"_L'heure exquise_," murmured Madame Mineur. Berenice wandered down the road and Hubert helped her mother to the wall, where he sat beside her and looked at her. He was a big, muscular man with shaven cheeks, dark eyes, and plenty of tumbled hair, in which flecks of gray were showing.

He had been a cla.s.smate of Theophile Mineur, for whose talents or personality he had never betrayed much liking. But one day at a _dejeuner_, which had prolonged itself until evening, Mineur insisted on his old friend--the Burgundy was old, too--accompanying him to Villiers-le-Bel, and not without a motive. He knew Falcroft to be rich, and he would not be sorry to see his capricious and mischievous stepdaughter well settled. But Falcroft immediately paid court to Madame Mineur, and Berenice had to content herself with watching him and making fun to her stepfather of the American painter's height and gestures.

The visit had been repeated. Berenice was amused by a dinner _en ville_ and a theatre party, and then Hubert Falcroft became a friend of the household. When Mineur was away painting, the visits were not interrupted.

"Listen," said Madame Mineur; "I wish to speak with you seriously, my dear friend." She made a movement as if to place her hand on his shoulder, but his expression--his face was in the light--caused her to transfer her plump fingers to her coiffure, which she touched dexterously. Hubert was disappointed.

"I am listening," he answered; "is it a sermon, or consent--to that portrait? Come, give in--Elaine." He had never called her by this name before, and he anxiously awaited the result. But she did not relax her grave att.i.tude.

"You must know, Monsieur Falcroft, what anxieties we undergo about Berenice. She is too wild for a French girl, too wild for her age--"

"Oh, let her enjoy her youth," he interrupted.

"Alas! that youth will be soon a thing of the past," she sighed.

"Berenice is past eighteen, and her father and I must consider her future. Figure to yourself--she dislikes young men, eligible or not, and you are the only man she tolerates."

"And I am hopelessly ineligible," he laughingly said.

"Why?" asked the mother, quietly.

"Why! Do you know that I am nearing forty? Do you see the pepper and salt in my hair? After one pa.s.ses twoscore it is time to think of the past, not of the future. I am over the brow of the hill; I see the easy decline of the road--it doesn't seem as long as when I climbed the other half." He smiled, threw back his strong shoulders, and inhaled a huge breath of air.

"Truly you are childish," she said; "you are at the best part of your life, of your career. Yes, Theophile, my husband, who is so chary in his praise, said that you would go far if you cared." Her low, warm voice, with its pleading inflections, thrilled him. He took her by the wrist.

"And would it please _you_, if I went far?" She trembled.

"Not too far, dear friend--remember Berenice."

"I remember no one but you," he impatiently answered; and relaxing his hold, he moved so that the moonlight shone on her face. She was pale. In her eyes there were fright and hope, decision and delight. He admired her more than ever.

"Let me paint you, Elaine, these next few weeks. It will be a surprise for Mineur. And I shall have something to cherish. Never mind about Berenice. She is a child. I am a middle-aged man. Between us is the wall--of the years. Never should it be climbed. While you--"

"Be careful--Hubert. Theophile is your friend."

"He is not. I never cared for him. He dragged me out here after he had been drinking too much, and when I saw you I could not stay away. Hear me--I insist! Berenice is nice, but the wall is too high for her to climb; it might prove a--"

"How do you know the wall is too steep for Berenice?" the girl cried as she scaled the top with apish agility, where, after a few mocking steps in the moonlight, she sank down breathless beside Hubert, and laughed so loudly that her mother was fearful of hysteria.

"Berenice! Berenice!" she exclaimed.

"Oh, Berenice is all right, mamma. Master Hubert, I want you to paint my portrait before papa returns--that's to be in four weeks, isn't it?" The elder pair regarded her disconcertedly.

"Oh, you needn't look so dismal. I'll not tell tales out of school.

Hubert and mamma flirting! What a glorious jest! Isn't life a jest, Hubert? Let's make a bargain! If you paint mamma, you paint me, also.

Then--you see--papa will not be jealous, and--and--" She was near tears her mother felt, and she leaned over Hubert and took the girl's hand.

She grazed the long fingers of the painter, who at once caught both feminine hands in his.

"Now I have you both," he boasted, and was shocked by a vicious tap on the cheek--Berenice in rage pulled her left hand free. Silence ensued.

Hubert prudently began to roll another cigarette, and Madame Mineur retreated out of the moonlight, while Berenice turned her back and soon began to hum. The artist spoke first:

"See here, you silly Berenice, turn around! I want to talk to you like a Dutch uncle--as we say in the United States. Of course I'll paint you.

But I begin with your mother. And if you wish me to like you better than ever, don't say such things as you did. It hurts your--mother." His voice dropped into its deepest ba.s.s. She faced him, and he saw the glitter of wet eyelashes. She was charming, with her hair in disorder, her eyes two burning points of fire.

"I beg your pardon, mamma; I beg your pardon, Hubert. I'll be good the rest of this evening. Isn't it lovely?" She sniffed in the breeze with dilating nostrils, and the wild look of her set him to wondering how such a gentle mother could have such a gypsy daughter. Perhaps it was the father--yes, the old man had been an Apache in his youth according to the slang of the studios.

"But you must paint me as I wish, not as you will," resumed Berenice. "I hate conventional portraits. Papa Mineur chills me with his cabinet pictures of haughty society ladies, their faces as stiff as their starched gowns."

"Oh, Berenice, will you never say polite things of your father?"

"Never," she defiantly replied. "He wouldn't believe me if I did. No, Hubert, I want to pose as Ophelia. Oh, don't laugh, please!" They could not help it, and she leaped to the gra.s.s and called out:--

"I don't mean a theatrical Ophelia, singing songs and spilling flowers; I mean Ophelia drowned--" she threw herself on the sward, her arms crossed on her bosom, and in the moonlight they could see her eyes closed as if by death.

"Help me down, Hubert. That girl will go mad some day." He reached the earth and he gave her a hand. Berenice had arisen. Sulkily she said:--

"Shall I step into the Dark Tarn of Auber and float for you? I'll make a realistic picture, my Master Painter--who paints without imagination."

And then she darted into the shrubbery and was lost to view. Without further speech the two regained the path and returned to the house.

II

THE CRIMSON SPLASH

When eloise was asked by Berenice how long Monsieur Mineur would remain away on his tour, she did not reply. Rather, she put a question herself: why this sudden solicitude about the little-loved stepfather. Berenice jokingly answered that she thought of slipping away to Switzerland for a _vacance_ on her own account. eloise, who was not agreeable looking, viewed her charge suspiciously.