The morning call., 1892-07-25
THE LAST TOUCHES.

LIZ uaDI 1OOOAuNs
Without doubt Henry CarbOuche was the
greatest painter In France. He had done
bis best 10 convince the world OF this, and
the world had responded by trying 20 prove
IFS conviction. A few inches Of canvas that
he had covered with paint were worth thou
sands Sovereigns thought it privilege TO
inspect his studio; decorations were offered
him, but he cynically refused them, even
though he was FTenchman. Biographical
writer's pined for details of his life, but he
supplied none. No one knew who he was,
or where he studied, or what had been his
history. His pictures were famous, Dut IL
seemed as If his fame had had no beginning !;
il had arrived suddenly al its height.
ThroughThe winter lie stayed IN Paris IN
his house near the Pare Moncesu. In the
early summer he disappeared, and the only
clew 10 his wandering was afforded later
on, perhaps, by some picture he exhibited
His house was a splendid one. Its appoint
meats were perfect; be looked upon them
with cold criticism, but that was all. The
names Of his servants be hardly Temem-
bered but ne turned on them hercely If
they neglected their duties. His food, the
food he ate, WAS the simplest, yet he
stOrmed if the table were meager.
His studio was the one bare, undec0rated
room IN the house: II was absolutely desti-
lute of all the luXuTles that painters OF these
days affect. There we're a couple OF easy
chairs. and a table near the treplace-a
great open fireplace on which he burnt
huge logs of wood; for the rest, there were
the actual necessities of his. work, but that
WAS all. He spent most OF his time In the
studio; be worked there and sat there, day
in, day out save when he went Tor his two
hours drive or took his way TO the gOr-
geous dining-U0om to eat his solitary meals
Ii was in the studio that his pictures were
sold to eager buyers, who thought 1t an
honor 10 stand in lis presence.
The other rOUms Of the house were always
empty, waiting. it seemed, To form a setting
to life that refused to be lived. or belong
ing TO a story that never WAS told, and that
day by day slipped back farther aud farther
into the past.
The logs were piled on the studio fire
again. The light was carefully arranged
On tie easel was a small canvas. large
enough, perhaps. for head and shoulders,
but DC more. On a slightly raised platform
was chair. CaTb0uche was awaiting his
sitter. and walked up and down expecting
to hear again the sound that had disturbed
him three mornings ago.
mime. la ComIesse," be said to himself /;
"Madeiiue-egh," and an ugly sound came
from his lips, but it was an expression Of
Dain. Perhaps she wears the gray squir-
rel around ner throat still. It must be q
different throat from that of % years ago.
Mon Deu. but If things had come at the
other end Of life instead OF at this"
he stopped before the portfolio in the cor
neT, and pulled out the canvas behind it.
1t represented some chestnut trees in for
est and a youth whO was trying 10 see the
face Of girl, but she had turned away from
him.
Il wish 1 had seen her eyes then, should
have known" lie said.
In a corner was written "Marly, Is"
4
paced no and down again. Then the door
opened and tall graceful woman entered.
CarbOuche bowed formally, his face grew
hard, but he looked curiOusly at his visitor,
trying 10 see her features through the lace
veil that covered them.
How do you do. NJ. Carboucbe? It 10
indeed pleasure to see you again"
Her voice was low and sweet and his
heart stirred TO il, but he set his teeth to-
getheT and answered stiff1y,
"Bon jour, man anne; | am to have the
honor Of painting your portrait"
1T is too good OF you to consent" she
said and came step forward.
Lady Harlekston as sitting for the last
time. The portrait was nearly finished. As
a painting ii was perfect. as q work of art
was 1t not CaTbOuche's? But il was as
accurate and as merciless as a looking-glass.
The face of the woman on the canvas was
the lace Of the woman who sat, nothing
was softened. TIE hair had that harshnesS
dye gives it; the color On the cheeks was
The tint Of that which had replaced the
natural one on the original. Every line
that time had set on her was reproduced.
Every year that she had lived could be
counted, nay. ii seemed as if every day and
night Of them had been in the painter s
mind while he worked
She was in despair That to go forth as her
portrait painted by the immortal Carbouche !
That artificial. made-up looking face of
who shall say how many years and 30 70 be
known to the world as hers; it would be a
shame and reproach even to her descend
ants! Once or twice she tried to remon-
strate, but words had no effect on him: he
was amenable to no hints Nothing de-
ceived him, no half-turning from the light
availed, no vile for single second served
its purpose. His eye as it fell upon her
seemed TO see her through and through, till
her cheeks burned and her throat trem mbled :
and his brush unerringly went to the can
vas, and without pity or scruple set down
what he had seen.
"Will it be finished to-day?" she asked
ehokingly.
And is that color really mine?"
he looked at her in surprise.
But certainly. madame"
You have put in al my wrinkles" she
said gently.
Il regret but cannot help them. The
JCdio NO iOt Inc W UC lOiSOIl6ns l0eY sci
mark on US as they go by, and IL was
madame's portrait that l was asked to
paint"
You might have left out a few" she
said; "a woman has her vanities."
might have left out one eye. madame.
but then It would not have been a portrait. -
ut makes me sad to see them" she said
they remind me-they are like the beads we
tell beside the dead. one for every year. and
hope and JOY that is gone"
Madame is poetic" and he touched the
throat OF the portrait with his brush.
She pulled up the lace about her own
throat little higher. He saw 1t and took
awsy some Of the fairness from the one he
bad painted.
'1t is too white." he whispered, and she
writhed.
Slowly she rose. and going to her cloaE
felt in its pocket
Monsieur" she asked. sis 1t too late 4
paint this collar around my throat? 1t /.
gray squirrel and l have possessed it many
years"