The Vermont watchman. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1883-1911, 1894-09-05
SELECTED STORY.
The Last Touches.

without DOUBT, Hen1y CarDoucne
was the greatest painter in France. He
had done his best to convince the world
of this, and the world had responded
by trying to prove its conviction. A
few inches of canvas that he had COW
cred with paint were worth thousands.
Sovereigns thought it privilege to in
spect his studio, decorations were Of
fered him, but he cynically refused
them, even though he was French
man. Biographical writers pined for
details of his life, but he supplied none.
No one knew who he was, or where he
had studied, or what had been his his
tory. His pictures were famous, but it
seemed as if his fame had had no be-
ginning; it had arrived suddenly at Its
height.
Through the winter he stayed in
Paris in his house near the Pare Mon
ceau. In the early summer he disap.
peared, and the only clue to his wan.
dering was afforded, later on, perhaps
by some picture he exhibited. His
house was splendid one. Its appoint
ments were perfect; he looked at them
with cold criticism, but that was all.
The names of his servants he hardly re-
membered; but he turned on them
fiercely if they neglected their duties.
His food, the food he ate, was the
simplest, yet he stormed if the table
was meagre. His studio was one bare,
undecorated room in the house; ii was
absolutely destitute of all the luXuries
that painters of these days affect. There
was couple of easy chairs, and table
near the fireplace-a great open fire.
place on which he burnt huge logs of
wood; for the rest, there were the
actual necessities TO his work, but that
was ALL He spent most of his time in
the studio; he worked there, and sat
there, day in, day out, save when he
went for his two hours drive, or took
his way to the gorgeous sale q mdnger
to eat his solitary meals. 1t was in the
studio that his pictures were sold to
eager buyers, who thought it an honor
rooms of the house were always empty,
waiting, it seemed, to form setting to
life that refused to be lived, or be.
longing to story that never was told
and that day by day slipped back fur
Their and further into the past.
The logs were piled on the studio fire
again. The light was carefully ar
ranged. On the easel was small can
vas, large enough, perhaps, for heaC
and shoulders, but no more. On {
slightly raised platform was chair
Carbouche was awaiting his sitter, anG
walked up and down expecting to heal
again the sound that had disturbed hin
three mornings ago. " Madame Ii
Comtesse," he said to himself: Made
line e-egh," and an ugly sound came
from his lips, but was an expression Of
pain. Perhaps she wears the gray
squirrel round her throat still. 1t mus
be different throat from that of three
and twenty years ago. Mon Dieu, bu
if things had come at the other end o.
life instead of at this "-he stepped be-
fore the portfolio in the corner, ant
pulled out the canvas from behind it
1t represented some chestnut trees in ;
forest and a youth who was trying tt
see the face of a girl, but she hat
turned away from him. {" 1 wish hat
seen her eyes then, 1 should have
known" he said. In corner wa
written Marty, 49," He put thu
picture back with sigh, and paced VI
and down again. Then the doc
opened, and tall, graceful woman en-
tered. Carboucbe bowed formally, hi
face grew hard, but he looked curiousl,
al his visitor, trying to see her features
through the lace veil that covered them
How do you do, M. Carbouche? l
is indeed pleasure to see you again
Her voice was low and sweet and hi
knt ho hio
together and answered stifily;
Bon jour, madame; | am to hav,
the honor of painting your portrait"
at is too good of you to consent,
she said and came step forward.
Lady Harlekston was sitting for thu
last time. The portrait was nearl,
finished. AS painting it was perfect
as a work of art--was it not Car
bouche's? But it was as accurate ant
as merciless as looking-glass. Thu
face of the woman on the canvas wa
the face of the woman who sat, nothin!
was softened. The hair had that harsh
ness dye gives it; the color on tn
cheeks was the tint of that which haC
replaced the natural one on the original
LfCiy llnc lliuI llluo udu oSJ vi ucI wa
reproduced, every year that she hat
lived could be counted, nay, it seemed
as if every day and night of them ha,
been in the painters mind while h
worked. She was in despair. That t.
60 forth as her portrait painted by tn
immortal CarbCNlchel That artificial
made-up -loOking face of who shall sa
how many years and forty to be know
to the world as hers; it would be
shame and reproach even to her de
scendants! Once or twice she tried t.
demonstrate, but words had no effect OIL
him; he was amenable to no hints
Nothing deceived him, no half turning
from the light availed, no vile for
single second served its purpose. Hi
eye as it fell upon her seemed to Sc
her through and through, till her cheek
burned and her throat trembled, an,
his brush unerringly went to the can
vas, and without pity or scruple Sc
down what he had seen.
"Will it be finished to. day?" sh
asked, chokingly.
(" 1t is nearly finished now, madame.
Sand is that color really miner"
He looked at her in SURPRISE 80 RI