# "A Modern Hercules," The Tale of a Sculptress/Chapter 21

CHAPTER XXI.
DOANE'S EXQUISITE VENGEANCE.
One day shortly after Ouida and Nugent had taken up their residence in the slums, Mr. Connors, who had now become a power in directing the political destinies of the country, met Mr. Doane, the editor, in the vicinity of Ouida's home.
"This is a queer place," said Doane. "It rather surprises me to see you here."
"Not more so than I am to see you in such a locality," said Mr. Connors.
"Oh, we newspaper men go everywhere."
"And we politicians, too; but honestly, what are you doing here?"
"Well," said Doane, rubbing his hands in grim satisfaction, "I don't mind telling you; a little private vengeance."
"Upon whom?" queried Connors.
"Ouida Angelo. You were present when I received that insulting blow on her account?"
"Yes, and by heavens, you brought it on yourself."
"Never mind that," said the editor. "I feel the sting yet, and while I cannot pay her back in kind, I can twist and probe her pride, and I'll do it, too. She lives in that miserable hovel over there," pointing to the place. "I am going to visit her."
"You astound me," said Connors. He himself was ​bent upon the same mission, yet was not inspired by so ignoble a purpose.
Doane continued: "She has become an object almost of public pity. When the haughty creature abandoned her husband, almost at the altar, and began a life of shame with her lover, even rotten New York society rebelled and frowned her down."
"Yes, it is but too true. The world, when once aroused, is cold in its judgment. But I did not know that she had been so frightfully reduced."
"She has lost her fame, and everything," said Doane.
"All," asked Connors, "her jewels, carriages, works of art?"
"Yes, all except the 'Modern Hercules.' So far, nothing has induced her to part with that. I have kept track of her affairs, awaiting my opportunity."
"Doane," appealed Connors, seriously, "I think there is true nobility yet in the character of that woman. Forego your vengeance."
"Not I," said the vindictive writer. "I am going to tempt her to sell the thing to me."
"This is the very refinement of cruelty," said Connors, in disgust. "You should have been a Spanish Inquisitor. You would have stood well with Torquemado."
"Wouldn't you like to share the treat with me?" said Doane.
"No," said Connors, and the men parted, Doane going over in the direction of the place where Ouida lived.
​The once proud and queenly sculptress sat alone, all pale and haggard, in her humble, ill-furnished abode, a prey to emotions that scorched her soul.
"Society never pardoned me," she thought, "my genius and fame, and when passion enslaved me and my back was turned, the cruel jade stabbed me in a fatal spot. I thought I could offer defiance to custom's rigid rule. I dreamed I was a queen, to whom the world owed obedience. I awoke, and found I was a woman, strong only in passionate devotion. Yet, could I turn back the hand of time, I would not change. Eternal poverty, exposure, shame, disgrace with him, is better than Paradise without. I have had pointed at me the finger of scorn, and yet upon his aching breast, I have found a consolation so deep and sweet, that it gave oblivion to the taunts without."
Her reverie was disturbed by a knock at the door.
"Come in," she said.
Doane entered.
"Ah," said he, placing his glass to his eye, "can it be? Do my eyes deceive me? Ouida Angelo!"
"Yes," she said, "and what can you want with me?"
"You surely believe me," he said, in exquisite irony, "when I tell you that I did not expect to find you here?"
"Then," said she coldly, "you will have no objection to making your stay as brief as possible. You see, I am not in a position to properly entertain so distinguished a visitor."
"Oh, don't let that worry you," said he, with cool impudence. "I'll take a seat; you don't mind, do you?"
​"I have no way of relieving myself of your presence," said Ouida, "save by invitation, as this is the only apartment at my disposal. I presume I shall be compelled to hear what you have to say."
"I was seeking curios," said Doane, whose malicious smile revealed the fact that he was lying, "and a neighbor of yours informed me that a lady, once proud and rich, had a very fine piece of statuary for sale. I called to see it, not knowing who the owner might be, and was dumbfounded to find it was you!"
"Mistaken, sir, as you usually are," said Ouida, "mistaken in all your facts. There is no lady here; only a woman of sorrow, one acquainted with much grief. I have nothing to sell, or give away."
"I see a marble figure there," said he, pointing to the one work of art that lent radiance and dignity, even to that humble abode. "Is that your work?"
"Yes," was the curt reply.
"What is it?" he said.
"I will not tell you."
"I know, so you might as well."
"If you know," she said, "then there is no necessity for me to give you any information."
"Let's throw deception to the winds," said he, unmasking himself. "It is 'The Modern Hercules.' I came to buy it of you."
"It is not for sale."
"Not for sale!" he said, "when the price I'd pay for it would enable you to hold up your head in the world again?"
"Sir," said she, filled to the quick with indignation, "I want neither your gold, sarcasm, advice nor presence."
​"A little of each would do you good."
"You are a coward, sir," the woman flashed out, "to say things to me here that you would not have dared to utter when wealth, power, position, all were mine."
"No, dear lady, not a coward, but one who enjoys telling the truth, even if it bites and wounds. Will you sell that piece of stone to me?"
"Not for the wealth of Vanderbilt," she replied. "I'd rather give it to a pauper whom I respected, than to sell it to you for enough to buy the golden opinion of all men."
"Such a resolve shows delicate sensibility, artistic temperament, but a minimum of common sense. I saw your—" (here even he could go but little further) "I mean Mr. Nugent, a few days ago, and if you still possess your romantic attachment for him, his pinched cheeks and sunken eyes, would induce you to make some little sacrifice for him."
The interview was becoming beyond endurance to Ouida, when, fortunately, the subject of the latter part of Doane's talk—Horatio Nugent—entered the room. He had heard the editor's allusion to sacrifice.
"Who are you," he cried, "that dare talk to her of sacrifice for me? The world should weep for her. She has, upon the altar of her affection for me, sacrificed a glory, which before, no woman had ever achieved upon the American continent."
Doane laughed, and Nugent, growing desperate, crossed over toward him, with threatening attitude.
Ouida clung to him, begging him, for their mutual sake to be calm.
"Oh, don't restrain him," said Doane, provokingly, "he'll cool down bye and bye."
​"Oh, I know you now," said Nugent, "You are from the upper world, a fair representative of the classes who set themselves up in judgment over common men."
"No," said Doane, assuming an injured air, "only an editor, whose kindly intent has been met here by rude insult."
"Take your intent and presence away," said Nugent, "and at once. We want neither. You and your kind stand well in the eyes of the world, but we refuse to bend beneath your judgment."
"Yet," said the editor, "you set up a tribunal of your own."
"Yes," said Ouida, "the tribunal of conscience, where we have had our trial, pronounced sentence, and for years have been paying to justice the penalty we owed."
"You refuse my aid?" said Doane.
"It was not sought; we will not accept it," said Nugent. "We prefer starvation to your pity."
"Then," said Doane, "let it not be pity, but a pure matter of business."
"We desire none with you," said Ouida. "This lodging is poor, but it is our own. Go, vent your spleen where it may be felt. We are beyond it. We have passed through the vale of agony. No shaft of scorn or ridicule can wound us more. Leave us, we would breathe the untainted air."
And as Doane went away from the presence of his intended victims, it crept through his narrow brain, that he had not accomplished much.
"I could not pierce the armor of their pride and devotion. I am an ass," said Doane to himself, and the next day's editorials were permeated with great bitterness.