Rensselaer Republican, Volume 17, Number 35, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 7 May 1885 — A PAINTER'S PERIL. [ARTICLE]

A PAINTER'S PERIL.

It was the studio of one of Paris’ most renowned painters, and the time the early part of the last century. Deschamps, still a young man, in 1714 had the tyorld already, as the phrase is, at Lis feet His pictures were accepted for the salon as a matter of course, and they sold at fabulous prices; for to possess them was a matter of fame. There-was nothing strange, then, in the luxurious style of his apartment’, which occupied an entire door on the Boulevard Madelainenear where it becomes the Rue des Italiens. His work-room was the envy of poorer ? sinters and the pattern for richer. et it was not choked with the usual paraphernalia of the artist; there were no pieces of armor, no ancient weapons, no statues, no trophies of the chase in wild lands. In short, it was dressed like the stage, with nothing for show, but with everything that the work in hand might render fitting. His loung-ing-room, again, was sui generis—a room for comfort as understood alone by men of art or men of letters. Deschamps, though young and formerly used to a meagre life, had now his own ideas of pleasure, and knew how, with his large income, to carry them out. It was only in his reception-room that he bowed to the popular tastes. This apartment was small and richly though sombrously hung with heavy embroidered portieres; the rugs were indefinit in design, like the Oriental mind that planned them; the furniture was of dark, foreign woods, upholstered in violet silk. It was in this room at the close of a winter’s day that a visitor awaited. The wax lights were Jit in their sconces, but they only partially illumined the gloom of the lustreless surroundings. Little gleams shone fitfully from the carved angles of the dark woods, like the flashes of a dark eye which intimates jet conceals some terrible mystery. The caller had chosen a seat in the greatest obscurity that the room afforded; but throwing aside her heavy veil for a moment’s glance at her surroundings she exposed a face which, even in the half-light, would have appeared of irresistible beauty. Her eyes were large and of a hue in which the hazel struggles with the jet; her nose, delicately Grecian; her complexion, olive; her eyebrows arched in a curve of which mathematics with all its art could never discover the equation. There was about the face, too, an exaggerated hauteur and arrogance which marked in those days the woman of the nobility. Her age was, probably, 25. The veil was raised only for a moment ; a soft step was heard along the hall without, and the portieres, swinging aside, allowed the entrance of the painter, “M. Deschamps?” The painter bowed and the lady continued, with her veil still lowered: “You are about to produce a scene from mythology?” “Yes.”

“You find it necessary to quit Paris?” The painter, no.t understanding the object of these questions, remained silent. “You are leaving Paris,” the stranger went on, “because you cannot find here a suitable model You desire a woman of refinement and intelligence as well as beauty. You consider the faces of ladies of the nobility lacking in freshness and naturalness.” These were, indeed, Deschamps’ reasons for seeking a model outside of Paris. Neither the rich nor poor of large cities are fitting figures in a painting which reproduces antiquity. “Knowing this,” continued the lady, with an added haughtiness of tone, “I have determined to take the part myself. You will understand now why, thus far, I have kept my face and name concealed. If I havo not sufficient merit ” This .last sentence was begun in a manner aa if her merits were a little questionable, and she allowed the sentence to remain unfinished, as if in so slight a doubt she had wasted words enough. But the painter did not choose his models at such random. “My intended picture is Europa.” he began to explain. “She was beautiful,’’was she not?” interrupted the stranger. “See if I am, and with a graceful movement she flung back her Tail- The painter was dumfounded. The face was the most

strikingly beautiful he had ever beheld. And it was now only that he recognized his visitor. ' f "Pardon me," he cried- “You are the Princesse ” “The Princesse de la Desgenettes. Do you think me capable of representing Europa?” -fe» “There is no question, Madame la Princesse,” replied the young man, in great embarrassment “But, excuse me, it cannot be that you understand the design of my projected work. Allow me to paint you in some other character." “I understand perfectly,” said the Princesse carelessly. “But I shall attempt to portray Europa at the moment when Jupiter, in the form' he assumes, comes to carry her to Crete; the figure will be full, Madame la Princesse.” “You wish a model Monsieur, and it only remains to know if I shall be a satisfactory one.” “That is already decided,” answered Deschamps. “Through your love of art, perhaps, you consent to supply me with the intelligent and refined face that I most needed. 1 can take the head from yours at any moment you may find suitable.” “Dull!’replied the Princesse; “you are dull. I desire to be taken for the whole figure. When can you begin ?” The painter had been lionized by all Paris. His rapid life had been full of the surprises of fortune, but this seemed the most singular of all It was so great that it staggered his credulity. “I see, Madame la Princesse,” lie began respectfully, “I see that you do not understand the picture as I have planned it I implore you •” “As I have twice repeated,” said the Princesse, imperiously, “I understand perfectly: J upiter in the form of a white bull, stands contemplating Europa. The female figure will be full, posed as I may decide, and undraped. Make no more excuses. Now when can you commence? I leave for St. Petersburg as soon as the picture is complete.” “We can begin to-morrow and finish in a week.” “That is a short time. We will set twice the period. Be at my hotel tomorrow at 12. I shall pose there. An apartment will be arranged and the necessary material provided. Give me the proper directions for this.” In a few words Deschamps explained what would lie needed. The canvass was to be of heroic size. The room was to be set as a grove, with tufted green for turf. At the foot of a practicable tree would lie Europa. The Princesse made a few notes. When these were completed she gave her last mandate: “I have one more word. Give it attention. Quit your studio to-morrow, giving out that you. are about to leave Paris. Come to me at the hour named in the disguise of a woman. You will be obliged to stay until the picture is completed, and, as a man, you might be recognized by some of the servants. It is necessary to take precautions. Besides you will give me your word never to reveal the identity of the model.” “Certainly; but when the picture is hung it will be recognized.” The Princesse made a little gesture as if this were a thing she had not taken into account "I may hang the painting in the Solon ?’ asked Deschamps. “That is your object in executing the work is it not?” said thePrincessenonchalantly, and dropping her veil she was conducted to the door. Deschamps remained pitrified. Could it be possible his visitor was the Princesse de la Desgenettes ? He had heard of her, as all Paris had, and she had been pointed out to him as she drove on the boulevards; but, by her rank, even from the highest who called Deschamps an acquaintance, she was far removed. He knew simply that she was reputed to be the richest as she was the most beautiful of Russian Princesses. She was unmarried and, with, apparently,' the strongest predisposition to love, had refused the bravest of her admirers. What should he decide ? He could not pretend to instruct her in the obligations of her rank. Even if she were not a faultless model he must paint her as Europa. To do otherwise would be an insult which Russian Princesses knew too well how to avenge. Why had she come to him ? It was a mystery which Deschamps could not satisfactorily solve. “It is only a freak,” said he; “perhaps she intends to buy the picture when it is done, and only poses as Europa because she imagines I will exert myself more for the Salon. If that is the case I shall return a rich man.”

The following mcrnifig he left his room in charge of the concierge, drove; for a few moments to his club, and gave out that he was quitting Paris, and then, securing the necessary disguise, directed himself to an obscure hotel, where he might make the metamorphosis. A little later he set out to keep his strange appointment. As he stood before the Princesse’s magnificent hotel, who shall say what passing fancies were being conjured up by his always fortunate hopes? Perhaps the next transformation would change him from a painter to a Prince. Perhaps—but he had no more opportunity for speculation, for he was at the door, lie sent up the name agreed upon, and in a few moments he was in the appartments of the Princesse.

She gave a satisfied glance at his dress, which represented him a£ a mid-dle-aged woman of the middle class, and then, dismissing the servant, directed Deschamps to follow her to the improvised studio. “Is it welldone?” she asked. It was perfectly done. Lights from above fell through natural leaves in bands, and banks, bud cylinders. In the centre, and where the broadest light fell, stood a tree-trunk with fantastic roots partially imbedded in the tawny rugs which served for the gazoc. It was indetd an ideal grove, full of a light and transparent atmosphere which the real forest never possesses The Princesse gave no,explanation of the pretext under which her orders for the work had beep given. “Is there anything you wish to suggest ?” she demanded.’ “Nothing; it is faultless.” “Then prepare your materials. I will return shortly.”’ 1

“Bui I was to make a promise,” stammered the!painter. ( . “It is not necessary. I had forgotten nothing except that you will continue to wear your present dress.” The painter disliked appearing to such a disadvantage, but he could only submit. With her last word the Prinoesse swept away to her dressing-room, and Deschamps, having made his preparations, took his place at the easel and rapidly sketched in the natural objects. He had but a few moments to attend wlfen the door opened and his noble model appeared. Scarcely could the painter repress an exclamation of wonder. Never had he dreamed of such perfection, such curves, such proportions, such color. He paused a moment, and then, controlling his voice, ' said: “I will not draw you as I intended; I will make simply an image of beauty, and by Jupiter’s silent adoration, 1 will show what the power of perfect beauty is.” The Princesse smiled and, sinking upon the turf, became a motionless statue, to . • . - Deschamps seized his crayon and began with ardor what he believed would be his greatest work. When the light failed he was given a private room and supplied by a servant with Isuch comforts as were suitable for a woman of the class he was supposed to represent. His ordinary divertisements were, of course, denied him; but this was necessary as a part of the Princesse’s precautions. The following day the work recommenced, and thus the time passed on. At first the young man was overeome by the Strangeness of his position, but later, remembering how fortune had hitherto favored him, there again came to his mind the high hopes of exalted station which he had begun to entertain on his first arrival at the hotel. One day he had been singularly happy in his touches, and’ the Princesse, coming in from adrive which she took daily'after posing, was noting the progress of his work. She gave him the first compliment he had received, possibly to spur him to greater efforts. Emboldened by this, he hinted his admiration, and, receiving no rebuke, declared his love. “Wait until the picture is finished,” was the only reply, given as coldly as her commands; hut Deschamps lived in the hope of a noble alliance. It was an afternoon of a day in the third week that the Princesse was posing for the last elaborations of the great master. The plain canvas had become glorious. Finally, when the light was at its best and his genius most exalted, Deschamps saw that his •work was done. “It is wonderful,” he exclaimed with enthusiasm, it is marvellous that I have been able to execute it! oßefore this I have never painted. I wish my reputation to stand upon this alone!” As he said these words he forgot what ephemeral passion he may have had for the Princesse, and with his thoughts on the divinity, art, he longed again to be in the world of men where he might be recognized more than ever as her priest. The Princesse had retired. Returning after a short period she examined the picture a moment narrowly, and then, signing to the astonished painter to follow her, conducted him by unused passages to a room on the ground floor, when she motioned him to a large arm-chair and herself took a seat at a little distance.

“When this picture is in the Salon,” he began. She interrupted him, and there was a look upon her face which was new to him—a look of cunning and triumph. “You amuse yourself, M. Deschamps, when you speak of the picture of the Princesse de la Desgenettes being hung in a public salon. To-night I shall start with it to St. Petersburg, and I shall place it in my palace where, no eyes but mine will ever behold it. There will then remain only yourself who know how the picture was obtained. Did you consider when you came here that your possession of this secret would be painful to me?” “But," said Deschamps, “I am willing to take an oath of silence, I assure you.” “You are very dull again,” replied the Princesse, “If you took an oath and kept it -” “As I should,” answered the painter with some indignation. “Even if you kept your path,” continued Desgenettes, “you could not forget. You must be made to forget. Do you know how that can be done ? As you have had the gallantry to make love to me, I will explain a method which I contrived before my first visit to your studio. Where are you now supposed to be ?” “Out of Paris.”

“And who knows that you are here?” “No one,” answered the painter, startled. “Do you see, now, how I shall make you forget your disagreeable knowledge. I shall simply take your life, M. Deschamps, and it seems to me that you have obtained a fair price for it.” Before her in the floor was a little knob, such as is used to ring house bells. 1 As she spoke she moved her foot toward it. Deschamps sprang from his seat. He knew not what result a pressure on the shining brass would precipitate. He only felt that the result to him would be death. He sprang forward to arrest the Princesse’s movement; but it was too late. Her foot was pressed down, and at the same instant he heard a noise behind him. He supposed it was the rushing in of the hired assasins. He turned and shuddered; his chair had disappeared. Where it had stood was an opening m the floor. By a rare presence of mind it immediately occurred* to him that the Princesse had tried to manage the affair by herself. After all it was nothing; the yawning snace meant only a displaced trap-door opening into an unused well or sewer. He turned back to the Princesse. “Your scheme of mnemonics is poor,” he cried’, banteringly. “Let us return; but first, as you have taken a trifling liberty with me. allow me the same privilege.” With this, knowing that her cries might bring danger, he placed her .handkerchief in her month and fastened it with his own. Taking, her back to the painting room he found a problem to solve; he must leave the hotel and in his absence the Princesse would deatroy the picture. He explained the

situation, and taking some small ropes from the skylights securely bound her to the trunk of the tree. This done, he found his way out and returned to his own studio. There he speedily became again the elegant Deschamps, and, half an hour'after quitting the hotel of the Princesse, returned with a squad- of gendarmes. To them he confided the lady while he occnpie 1 himself in the transportation of his great painting; •• A week later the Princesse, who had joined depravity and vanity, poisoned herself in prison. ' The fatal picture took its plabe in the salon; it became the struggle of the critics as to which should find in it the most occult merit; the struggle of Parisians was to find a listener who had not yet heard its tragical history.