A CORSICAN VENDETTA

Auckland Star, Volume XVIII, Issue 281, 29 November 1887, Page 6

A CORSICAN VENDETTA

By C. A. GUNTER,

The Successful American Playwright.

CHAPTER VI

PURSUED,

The incidents peculiar to that event in Corsica had by no means lefb the mind of the American ; but in bhe life of the world Of to-day, with its railroad rapidity of change in incident, andextroordinary variety itl idea and action, a man of the present generation has little time to think of the past; he can only put ib away in some closet of the brain, to be produced for future reference when called for.

Barnes, face to face with the picture, produces his memories of Corsica and proceeds to apply them to the subject before him.

His first impression *S? one of surprise that the /iew in front of him is so wonderfully correcb in some details, and so false in others. The picture is a complete representation of the scene. The shelving shore, the blue waters of the ba>, the little inn wibh its balcony and table set with the remains of Barnes's breakfast, bhe decayed wooden stairs, and the Corsican mountains in the background, are so absolutely real that he almost feels himself standing upon the beach again. But the iiguresand groupings are not all so correct. The canvas presents two portions of the action of bhe duel bhat occurred ab two different times. Either with tho object of giving greaber effect to the picture as a work of art, or for some other unknown reason, these two episodes are placed togebher as if they had taken place at the same moment. At the left of the scene is young Paoli in his French naval uniform, dying in Barnes's arms, who is supporting his head in the same manner as Marina first saw him. His hand is upraised, however, pointing: to the English lieutenant with a posture of disapprobation. At the centre stands do Belloc, sternly looking at the British officer with a glance of surprised horror, while upon the stairway is old Mateo gazing at him with a scowl of repulsion. This object of general condemnation, standing rabher to the right of the picture, is holding in one hand his ship's pistol apparently jusb discharged, as it is still smoking ; while in the other, upraised, he grasps the lucky crown piece with Paoli's bullet flattened against it, and looks at it with triumphant exultation and joy. This effect is also duplicated in the figure of the Englishman's second, who seems equally elated at his companion's success. The figures of Paoli, do Belloc, old Mateo, and even the two Corsican fishermen, who row the waiting boat, are all absolutely correct in every detail. In fact, that of Antonio is painted with great care and delicacy, and his face given an ideal beauty of expression that makes him look more like a martyred saint than a man dying with the desire of another's blood uponnis soul; proving that whoever painted the picture could only regard him as absolutely unsinning in the affair that caused his death. In marked contrast to this, Mr Barnes's face is by no means a good likeness, and could only have been painted from a passing memory ; while the figures of tile two English sailors, that are entirely ideal, must have been produced by ono who had never seen them, and at best had had bub a description of their persons and appearance. The artist, furthermore, had evidently been disposed to do them little justice, as the countenance of tho principal of the affair, though lighted up by triumph, is darkened and shaded by malice, murder and cowardice in vivid yot most repulsive combination. Over this scene is thrown tho rising tropic sun, giving the brilliant lights and shadows of a soubhern picture, and developing the passions on the faces of the men till the thing seems no work of tho imagination, but a horrible and cruel realiby.

As an artistic production tho picture is not great ; for it is evidently the work of an artist who is not thoroughly cultured in his style, nor technique ; bub as a concentration of human passions, real and awful in their intensity, ib makes its mark. It has been hung pretty near the line, and has quite often a little crowd of morbid gazers about it. Its effects are heightened by artificial means, as it is deeply framed in dead black, lustreless ebony; and has in red letters upon its sombre frarno its title, " Murdered /"

If the Committee aro idealists, it will receive no prize, thinks Mr Barnes ; and if a majority of them are realists in art, it will certainly gain an honourable mention, perhaps more. "Anyway, Marina might have made me better looking," thinks the young man, for ho has almost immediately determined from whose brush the picture must havocome. Everythingthe young Corsican girl knew accurately of tho affair hod been accurately painted. The portrait of Barnes, of whom she had but a memory, was defective ; while tho faces of the two English officers she had never seen were entirely creations of her imagination. Thinking this, he looks at the corner of the picture to see the artist's name ; but only finds the inscription " Finem Mespiee!" which Mr Barnes, whose knowledge of Latin is already rusty, copies into his pocket-book, and a few days after discovers means "Look to the End !"

At Barnes's first exclamation and start of surprise at the picture, an old man some little distance in the background, bub still near enough to notice anyone standing before, has gradually approached ; and while he has been examining the painting has carefully been scrutinising him. Now as he turns about to see if the English girl has not yet entered the room, this man, who has the appearance of a picture dealer, and many of the general attributes of the speculator who lovCs art for the shekels thab ib brings, drops alongside of him and says impressively in English, with a slight foreign accent, " Horrible!"

"Horrible, indeed!" returnsßarnes,with almost a "shudder, for the picture is so vivid that lie feels the dying boy again in his arms.

His efiaotion seems to excite the curiosity of the man beside him as he suggests, " Monsieur is interested in the picture f"

" Very much?" "Indeed?" (a slight inquiry on the word). "It is not a great work ; the artist is young, I believe I" " You know her then !"

" Her ?" the man looked confused, but after a moment suddenly says, "Yes. I've seen her once; you see I thought if I could feb the thing cheap I'd buy it. It's so eastly horrible. Some people are morbid in their tastes and will pay more for a firstclass murder than for a masterpiece from the brush of G.rome or Be Taile. lam an art dealer !"

"So I guessed !" replies Barnes. "I suppose if Meissioner would deify some brutal modern assassination by his genius, you'd give .- good deal for it!" " A fortune !—if he'd but embody a crimo I once investigated " Here the man checks himself suddenly and says, " You wish'to purchase this, Monsieur ?" "No 1 I wouldn't have it for a.gift! Ib %rl_gs back unpleasant memeries too vividly; I almost see it now !" and the American again thinks of the fatal morning and becomes grave. The man at this is evidently about to ask him some question, but Enid Anstruther and Mrs Vavassour enter the room, and Barnes has now no thought of anything but b_f. He moves away from tho picture and ensconces himself in an obscure corner where lie __n 6.c the girl without coming himself

prominently into view. From tins time forward, however, the gaze of the man who has spoken to him follows him greedily, as if there was a good deal of money in nob losing sight of bhe foreigner who is interested in tho picture. A moment later, seeing that Barnes has no thought of leaving, he steps oub of tho room and returns with two others, wJio, after a short consultation, pub their eyes upon and keep them on the foreigner who lias been startled by bhe picbure ; seemingly to fix him in their minds, and after a moment saunter leisurely oub unnoticed by Barnes, who has just been reduced to practical lunacy by the peculiar actions of his English enchanbress.

Miss Anstruther, afber one quick glance aboub the room with her shining blue eyes, apparently in search of somebody she docs nob see, leads Mrs Vavassour straight to the canvas from which Barnes has burned away ; and, standing before ib, laughs to her companion and says, " That's bhe one I bold you aboub ! That's he ! That's the man I've fallen in love with ! That's the creature I adore with all my heart !" pointing eagerly to the picture. "Which one, Miss Impressionable?" laughs Mrs Vavassour, fueling for her glasses. " Thab one ! The ugly one !" and the girl directs her finger straight at the and face intended for Barnes.

At these asbounding words a spasm of ecstasy flics through that young gentleman's soul. After recovering his senses a little, he meditates savagely : if Marina had only painted him better looking, the girl would recognise him, and then —rapture ! This flattering view of the situation is materially tempered, however, as he hears Mrs Vavassour remark, inspecting tho picture closely wibh her eye-glass, " Why ! he somewhat resembles that, horrid modern young Faust we saw in the other room !" "Nob ab all. My darling "—tho girl lingers on the word and gazes coquettishly at tho Barnes on canvas —"is much handsomer. Say you think so, Mrs Vavassour, or I shan't like you."

" Inde.d he is not." " Oh, yes he is. He has such an exquisite moustache, and Fausb had none." Barnes hero curses the barber who shaved him and robbed him of the ornament.

After a little pause, Mrs Vavassour, who is a practical woman, says: "What nonsense ! You have plenty of flesh and blood adorers, Enid."

The reply makes Barnes start. " Oh ! he' 3 flesh and blood too ; this is not an ideal— it's a portrait!"

" Why do you think that ?" " You know I told you what ab first made me so interested in tho picture—bhat letter from Egypt, lb rather remirtded me of the affair, especially thab lucky penny episode on bhe canvas ; so 1 came to see the picture several times, and gob to studying the morbid horror of the thing, and then became interested in the faces— especially in his ; but I wasn't very desperate about him bill I became jealous." '* What ?" gasps Mrs Vavassour. " I feared I had a rival !" This last with simulated melodramatic intensity.

" A rival !" almost screams the now astoundedßritish matron. "Great Heavens! Did you think that canvas tinny could be false to you ':" "No! But I feared another loved him also; a Spanish, Italian foreign girl used to linger at a littlo distance, Razing lovingly at this part of tiio picture," ana sho points to Barnes supporting tho dying boy. "A Frenchman generally was with her ; and one day — 1 presume she had noticed my interest in tho picture —she came to me and uskcdl mo point bank why I looked at that canvas so much. As 1 did not care to tell her tho Egyptian story, I said I was eprnwith the face of the man who pitied. And then she said with n littlo sad smile, 'Yes, ho pitied; but bo careful, don't love him too much ; ho lives ! To which I roplied : ' You had bcttorHako caro of your own heart. You look at him quite tenderly yourself ' " " And she ?" suggests Mrs Vavassour. "Sho said: 'It is tho dying man I look at. Ho was my brother.' Then sho went away, and I found out, i>y questioning tho attendants, that she had painted the picture of her brother's murderer. A nice, morose, morbid taste, wasn't it ?"

"Not a bit more morbid than giving your heart to a man on canvas,' suggests Mrs Vavassour.

"Do you think so? I fun I it very convenient. I can have v rendezvous with him whenever I please ; and he never makes love to mo in return, nor says things that make me hate him, nor squeezes my hand till my lingers suffer, nor does something that causes me to get on my dignity and keep him at a distance ; but as this is our last interview, I've brought you wibh mo, Mrs Vavassour, that our parting may nob bo too tender !" laughs the girl. " Enid ! you're nob insane enough to ever expect to meet this man !" " No such luck, I'm ufraid," Bays the girl in playful sadness. "And if you did?" " And he looks like that, I should adore him! The rest"—and she points to the picture—"have triumph, hate, or rage in their faces—but pity, none !My darling " —here the girl almost laughs at her conceit —" has pity. I know he could light as well as the bravest of them, and love—much better !" And she gives tho Mr Barnes on the canvas a look of such bewitching tenderness that she makes the Barnes of flesh and blood almost crazy with rapture.

Mr Barnes has not overheard the whole of this conversation, bub ho has caught enough to make him slightly imbecile, and he now has wild dreams of introducing himself as the earthly represcntatiue of the being she loves. However, a little remaining sanity prevents this impertinence. "But if you met him, would yon marry him ?" asks Mrs Vavassour, who now with true matronly spirit has become interested in making a match for the girl, even with a man on canvas.

"Who can tell? We seldom marry first loves—what nonsense! Of course we'll never see each other; and, if wo did, I should probably hate him !" Then, turning to the picture, Miss Anstruther says : " Good-bye, my darling ; if I were rich, I'd buy you, and we'd never part, bub poverty so often separates lovers in this world." Barnes, who drinks in with extended ears the last parts of this speech, runs off to find the picture dealer. He will purchase it and astound his darling, his Enid, by presenting it on the wedding morning, is his last erratic inspiration.

He has gob to calling her " his Enid !"' in his mind already, has this rapid yonng man —for though, during bho extraordinary conversation he has just listened to, he has probably not had one moment of real, absolute sanity, he has still clung with all a maniac's fervour to ono grand central idea, and that is, that the girl who loves the Barnes of canvas shall love the Barnes of clay, and marry him wibh very shorb delay for either consideration or trousseau.

In fact he has, even now, wild dreams of Como and tho honeymoon, with her by his side, robed in delicious morning gowns and other entrancing toilets that drive young husbands into rapture. "Wonders whether she'll give him one night a week off for his club, and if she'll make a very big battle against cigarettes, cigars, and his other pet mannish frivolities and dissipations. And many other wild masculine ideas flit through his brain, some of which would make her laugh, and some of which would probably make her blush, if tho girl could have known them.

Mr Barnes finds the picture dealer without much trouble, for that worthy has never lost sight of him for a moment, and comes eagerly half way to meet him. "I haven't a minute to talk to you," says the American, "I've changed my mind, and want thab picturo. Find out what price sho nsks for it, and communicate with me At Hotel Meurice,"

"What name?" inquires the picture dealer ; bufc by this time Barnes is half-way across the room from him in pursuit of Miss Ansfcrufchcr, who has just left the apartHβ shouts back, "Hotel Mcurice. I'll leave word for you at the office !" hurries on, and pushing his way in the crowd, overtakes the ladies just as they reach the vestibule. Here he catches these words passing between them : " Enid, you must have some lunch befere yon go !" " I can't! I must catch the express tram —Lady Chartris goes upon it, and my maid will be with her.' With this the young girl steps into a hack and drives away. As she does go, Barnes gets into another, whispering to the driver : " Twenty francs if you don't lose sight of that carnage ahead of you ! And drive like blazes !" As the American whirls away, the picture dealer, accompanied by the two men with whom he has been in consultation, comes out of the door ;he says to them : "Remember—don t let him escape you—follow him and telegraph !" The men jump hastily into a hack that has been waiting for them, and the three cabs take the direction of the Boulevard M ansae and Lyons Railway station—the young English girl in the first), unconscious of pursuit; Mr Barnes in the second, equally innocent that anyone is on his track; and two other ordinary-looking Frenchmen in the third; one of them chuckling to the other : " I wondered what frightened our bird ? That was a bright card he played, telling Casper to find him at the Hotel Meurice, when he's now driving like mad to the Lyons Railway station." {To be Continued.)