"La Femme Riante."

Timaru Herald, Volume XIIC, Issue 13840, 27 February 1909, Page 1 (Supplement)

"La Femme Riante."

By Phillip Ray> (From the Australasian.)

There was no sound in the attic but the scraping of a wooden tool on a clay figure, so that when the sculptor threw it° from him and it clattered on the tioor the noise vibrated through the silence, but did nothing more serious than rouse a large black cat that lay sleeping on a small iron bedstead. •• I must go for a stretch, Mimi," said the man, as he carefully swathed the figure in some folds of damp cloth. ••I am almost frozen; I shall be able to do more when I am warmer, ma petite." The cat blinked solemnly as one granting permission, then settled down lazily as West reached for his hat and swung down stairs whistling. On the second floor he stopped outside a door hung with a thick curtain, and knocked. "Who is it?" came in a pretty treble. "Harmon, Sophie." " Come, come, man pars. T cannot open to you. I am en dishabille. Come in." He opened the door, and found the pretty Sophie fastoning on a long neglige. She came towards him with inviting lips. He kissed her, then threw himself into a chair and put his feet as near the blaze as he dared. She watchr*! him as she uncoiled and recoiled her crisply curling hair. " You look frozen, Mon cher. I believe you don't care a bit for yourself in that horrid room or yours." "I haven't time'for coddling, and that's the truth." "Coddling, no! But—:well, bare you a fire?" Fortunately for Harmon, she turned away as she spoke, so she missed the blush that mantled to his -temples, and died away as quickly —a sight that would have told much to the quick-witted little Sophie. "A fire?—no; I have no time to "waste," said Harmon. How could he tell her that his fuel box was empty, and he dared riot ask for more till ho had paid his hill? He stretched his long limbs to the blaze, and turned his head to watch her. narrowing his eyes, artistically appraisine the value of her movements. She felt herself being watched, and turned sharply. •' Don't! You know T hate to be looked from between half closed eyes," she said petulantly. He did not move —except to focus his narrowed eyes on her face.i "Why don't you stop when I tell you?" she demanded. " I am stndvinsr you, 'ma petite,' as that little oily Italian on the first floor used to say.". "J don't want to be studied." "Not even to help make my immortal work "La Femme Riante' ?" "No-o-o, not even for "that, I think," she said, soberly. ''But/' by the way, bow goes the wprk?" "Fine, Glorious!" he said, enthusiastically. "All but the old trouble—the smile, it does not satisfy me; there is something, something, yet to come." " But she does smile—is it not so?" " Smiles—yes," he said, almost savagely. "But I want -a, smile that one word will cover." He rose and punched a cushion in the chair as he passed, then walked rapidly up and down the room as he spoke—a great habit of this long American student. "She will not merely smile," he said, frowning .heavily. "I will make her smile in pity—in mockery—tenderly —wickedly—as a mother smiles on her child —sednctively—passionately— all, —pverythins must be expressed in her smile: her life's story must, lie on her His rapid - walk.. . brought him opposite Tier chair, where he bent over her. His voice was almost hoarse. "She must even smile as you smile, my Sophie." Even she flushed under the passion in his eyes, but the magnetism in him drew her up, and she sprang towards him; then, changing her mind, she turned quickly away, and as he turned towards her expect- , antly she moved aside. "No," she said with a provoking smile, "sit down. I'll make you some . coffee, and I want to talk to you." He laughed abruptly, and said, as he sank into the chair again, l "Well, I shall continue to 'study' you. It is my only chance." "Don't you find it fearfully cold at your work?" she said, as'she busied h«r=elf at the little stove, making an obvious effort to bring him back to the common-place. " Yes, it is cold—it doesn't matter much for me: but the clay! It worries me night and day. What should I do if she froze? My beautiful! I dream at nit'ht that she has frozen into a hard block, and mv work has all gone -rail wasted! Hh-h!" "Probably when you go to bed without sufficient supper." she was buttering some rolls for him, so again she missed the furtive look of quick flush; but he could see that it was only a chance shot, and that she did not know how perilously near the truth she'was. In silence they drank the coffee, Harmon still watching her. Sophie seemed uneasy, as if she wanted to speak and hardly knew the best way to begin. After some studio talk, she evidently made up her mind to have it out, and said with studied unconcern: — "I had a visitor last night, Harmon." "Yes?" he asked. "Pierre Fefarge was here." He sat up and tried to find her eyes, but she seemed to be engrossed in a piece of fringe she held. "Pierre Lefarge, the cur! And you let him in?" "But, yes," she smiled her provoking smile; "it was to see me that he came, mon vieux." . Harmon remained scowling. She laughed shortly. " Why don't yon ask what he said, what ho wanted," she asked callously. "I.am afraid,".he muttered. "You are right to be afraid," she said. "Heis in town to make arrangements for a yachting trip." She got up and walked unconcernedly across the room, standing with her back. to Harmon as she spoke. "He wants me to go with him." " And —did you tell him to go to Hell —alone?" He added "alone" after a pause. It sounded almost sneering as he said it, so calm was ho. Had she but known, it was the calmness of despair. This was the moment she had been fearing since she first belonged to him. • ~ , Sophie smiled. Sophie always smiled. A. student had written some verses with the refrain, "Sophie smiles hor way through life." It was true. But Sophie had many smiles. It was not alwavs pure mirth that lay behind them. Harman was not the first artist that had felt their comedy and tragedy and had tried to reproduce them in paint or clav. "No, 1 did not," she flashed, showing her dazzlin gteeth. " Parblen—non, non, non," she stamped her loot with emphasis. As she was sweeping - past his chair be put a detaining arm on her waist, and drew her on to his knee. •' Sophie, my little Sophie," he began softly. Harmon's voice was his principal charm. It could he so deep, pleading, and vibrant with power. " Sophie mine, you would not desert me now, cherie, now that fame, and fortune are almost in my gasp, little .woman?"-

"You have said that often before, Harmon." She was relenting. It was hard to resist that voice, and she. had to remind herself that she meant to be firm. .

"Little one, I have never before been so near the prize. I have never before had so ' One femme riante.' You have seen her, you know?" he bent forward eagerly. " Yes, yes, she is beautilful. She is too good. She may not bring you money."

"But fame —" he put in quickly. "Fame!" she echoed, impatiently, almost scornfully. "Fame; it takes long in coming—and to me, of what use? "Yes, yes," as howent to interrupt her. "I would like to see you famous, mon garcon, but it may be long, long before the francs come in. Now, Pierre, lie has promised me frocks. Oh, so many. Diamonds, Harman, diamonds —think of it —poor little Sophie with diamonds." He almost flung her from him with a- growled ejaculation, as he rose and strode about the room again. "You little fiend!" He glared at

her. She realised that she. had been too brutal, and in extenuation she pleaded, nervously:— ,

"I have always been so poor, Harmon; I am tired of it."

"Give me a chance, Sophie; wait a little longer," he said, quickly seizing his opportunity. She shook her head obstinately. "It is your own fault—your own fault. You w6uld not take that order from Seans. You could have had money." " Would you have me do that stuff?" he asked scornfully. She flinched, but stood her ground. "Yes, it would do in between wiles; it need not spoil your own good work." "Pah!" he said, in disgust, "I will not. I will not demean my work by, trumpery work like that. How dare you suggest it. How could I go back to my beautiful clay with my hands smeared with that stuff?" and he brushed his hands suggestively, as if to rub awav contamination.

She was white with passion at his scoriij but as her passion rose her calmness returned. It was when she was calm, not raging, that "she was most dangerous and obstinate. With a mocking smile she turned to him.

"Oh, you are too good for me. I cannot rise to such heights. I think a live dog much better than a dead lion..i I mean to live. You can have your fame —probably when you are dead,", she* added, vindictively, " but it wouldn't do mo any good then." He seized her by the arms and with difficulty refrained from shaking her. "You said in.the beginning that you'd never leave me?" he said, gritting his teeth. "Didn't you?" He actually gave her a little shake to emphasis his words. "Yes," she mutered sullenly. She never lied, unless, as she put it to herself, she could gain something by it. "And now you would leave me for that clod —that cur. You can't do it, Sophie. What can I do?" She was softened by his appeal. "Mons gars, I love you"—his eyes glittered—"but I love myself." She smiled dazzlingly. "If we had only a little money to help me enjoy myself. 1 have been good to you, is it not so?" She turned her pretty head like a bird, and stood poised lightly, till he crushed her to him.

"Good! good!" He smothered her face in kisses. " Where should I be without you? Where my inspiration, my beautiful statue? You will not will wait a little longer? It must come —it shall come. Think! But a few months, then—the 'Salon —the the fyowdsrrand you„.iny little.iaonhie-. shall be immortal. I swear it shall be so." She was moved by his earnestness and passion; but she knew in the depths of her consciousness that her feeling was only a passing-phase. She knew well that her restlessness would return. She drew back from him as she said: —

"And you will accept Sean's order, mon cher? And we. will have a good time —oh, such a good time." She smiled uncertainly into his darkening face.

■ " You know I cannot," he answered in a smothered voice. "You should help me. Where would my self-respect be after it was finished ? No, I hate the idea—l can't—l can't." He buried his face in his hands. x Secretly she admired him for his firmness, but she was obstinate, too, and her-temper rose again.

"You ask too much, mon ami—too much. You will not give yourself, nor will you let another. Shall I then throw awav all—all?"

"Because you said you loved me," he interrupted, lifting his bowed head. But her softness had departed; all her strength was engaged in the effort to have her way. " Must I grow old—passe—while I wait—wait—wait?" her voice, rose shrilly. She waited in vain for him to sneak. As lie remained silent, she added coquettishly: "Besides, mon cher, I shall not be gone long. When I return, perhaps your fame will have arrived, and then "

His.face stopped her. "Do vou think," he said, looking at her insultingly, " that I will take yon back from that onehon ? Norn de Dieu! If vou go, you stay." "That is all you have to say, it is?' her teeth glittered again. "There are as n-ood as you —you who dare to refuse meT You can go—go to your fame, to vour 'femme riante.' They will bring vonr cold comfort—she and fame." She almost spat the words at him. He again gripped her arms so that his finger tips bruised her tender flesh. "■ ,„ "Do vou moan that I am to go;" he demanded breathlessly. Had he been a little more tender, or waited a little longer, things might have been different; but her passion still surged within her, and she nodded her head. He cast her away, so that she reeled to the centre of the room as he strode ° U s'he stood quite still where he had left her, watching the door, and listenin" to the echo of his stops on the bare stairs. Once she" flung her arms out; then as the door banged some floors above, she shrugged her shoulders, put out her hands as if in oxplanatmu to some one unseen, then raised them to smooth her ruffled hair. Harmon strode blindly up the stairs to his room, hardly seeing where ho wont He did not oven fool the icinoss of the air after the warm glow o Sophie's room; he walkecl to the window and watched the whirling flakes of snow scurring and hurrying to whiten and beautify the huddled mass of roofs beneath him. His anger and passion were drifting from lum as .f frozen out of body and soul, and m their plrtce a grave depression ami loneliness wore mantling on him—just as the snow was mantling the world without. -'But the snow would melt and drift awav," he thought, as he watched with "wido-opened eyes that stung and burnt with a man's unshod tears. And he —what was to become of hint without Sophie? He had never realised before how much of his life she tilled. It seemed that life without her must lie impossible. Ever since he had come to Paris,' a strange lonelv youth, Sophie had boon in his life. The first dav he had moved into an attic of the building ho had met her on the stairs,

and her bright "Bon jour, monsieur," was almost his only welcome to this land so far from home. At first she had been his guide, philosopher, and friend, till the time they found they loved each other. Since then —his inspiration. When life and hope was at its lowest ebb, there was always Sophie's room, where cheeriness and a welcome awaited him. Sophie, who always understood everything —or almost" everything. The only thing she wilfully .misunderstood was his attitude towards his art. She could not realise, his firmness in refusing to • do" selling work," as she called it. Her greediness for money was the only (law in an ! otherwise perfect jewel. It was insufferable to think that their lives would flow in different channels —it would not bear thinking of: there would be nothing but work to fill the-void. The thought of work acted as a tonic to his depression. Work—, of course he must p-et to work. He would work like a lion, he would finish bis "femme riante," and show the reckless Sophie what she had lost. Then she would come back to him. perhaps with soft arms round his nock, and smile at him with that elusive smile —he pressed his hands over hot eves as her smile came to him. Then he went to his statue.

"I believe I have it—T can do it now. All that was wanting to comnlete von —I have seen my princess. Now I'can work." Pfeodloss of the cold, he 'threw his coat awav to leave bis bare arms more free, and in a passion of energy, be seized his tools, still muttering to himself. "Yes. I have seen it all, now. Until to-dnv I have seen her smile sweetlv. passionately, coquettishlv, pitvingly: but to-day her cruel smile told mo more. T can see where they all meet — where the hardness curls in here on the lips—in the eyes " —he was working feverishly now, giving a turn here, a line there, as a stroke, a caress almost, that altered the character of the face, at each movement, and the unmoving woman under his hands brought him j comfort —even as his warm flesh and 1 blond Sophie bad done. He worked till the light faded. Supper time came and went: he was resting from the =tntuo. He thought he would design the pedestal—the pedestal which would be worthy of the burden it would carry. Allegorical suggestions of a woman's j life and emotions must coil and drape, ! from the marble. On and always breathlessly he worked, as if he. were flying from thought. Towards 30 o'clock the sound of Sophie's voice calling for the eoncie7-ge broke through the wall of oblivion with which ho had tried to surround himself, and with miserable unseeing eyes ho. sat staring at the statue in an agony of remembrance. Then with an effort he wrenched- his thoughts from her, and once again in a fury of inspiration he fell to work on the i'ace of his clay woman. Hours later, when he stepped back and looked at the beautiful smiling face and lightly-poised figure, he flung his tools to the floor. "You are perfect now, my smiling woman. I defy the world to say what makes you smile. Are you laughing at me, or are you sorry for me ? You will not tell? -Well," that is part of your charm. 1 .will not touch you again, my beauty; but, mon Dicn, I am cold —I have missed my supper, I believe; but I have got you." As he spoke he wrung some linen cloths in cold water, and tenderly wrapped them around the figure, folding dry ones over it again, and then placing a waterproof, cloth over all. His. priceless treasure must be shielded from all possible harm. Unwillingly .he drew away ' from the figure, 'blowing on his icy fingers to relieve the frozen ache. Then he realised the freezing,..cold, jjf ~' the . .room. Looking from the window, he saw that the snow had ceased, and there was every prospect of a heavy frost during the night. It was on the statue that he thought, not of himself. He dared not risk the clay freezing. Once that happened his work would be lost. He was afraid that the'precautions ho. had taken would not be sufficient. A lire was impossible; he had no fuel, and it was far too late to get it, even if he could have begged it. Bitterly be realised that in other times he might have appealed to Sophie for help. Perhaps she would have her revenge,'on him in that way. Several times he, went to the tiny cupboard; that served him as a wardrobe and pantry, though he knew the futility of each visit. His tired bloodshot eyes travelled the walls many times. Suddenly bis fare brightened. He stepped to the bod. dragged up a heavy rug', and tenderly, us if covering his life and his love, he wrapped .the statue up and threw himself drcsod as he was. on to the bed. He kept the light burning, for he felt that he must have some objects on which to fix his mind to help drive away the vision of a face that met him wherever he turned. In spite of the intense cold, a drowisness came over him. He could see the beautiful soluptnred face in spite of its wrapping. He knew where each curve lay, where each contour melted, and vaguely be thought of what it would mean to him. The first thing be would get, ho thought hazily, would he a huge fire. Ho had never wanted to cower over a fire V> much. In a vision he could see it danee and crackle -, he saw it shine on Soohio; then snddenly.it sank away and all was dark. Under her gay wrappings, in the silence, the statue 'smiled. •It.' was not till late in the evening that Sophie began to realise how much she would miss West. In vaim she reasoned it would not bo for long: She imagined herself on the dancing waters of the Mediterranean having a "good time." She would come back with riches, perhaps, and would pour them into Harmon's lap, and together they would have hours such as they had not dreamed possible. Far into the night she dreamed. She would see him in the morning. She would watch for him to come downstairs on Ids way to breakfast; ;she would draw him into her room and make him kiss hew, "make it up." and say " good-bye." When morning came Sophie watched in vain long after Harmon's usual time for going out. She wondered it he was keeping out of her way intentionally. She smiled at the shallowness of his design, and danced up the stairs to his room humming to herself. A knock brought no answer, and a second knock seemed but to emphasis the stillness. She put her lips to the keyhole, "Harmon, it is Sophie; do not keep me waiting." The silence which met her advance began to annoy Sophie, and she turned to leave: but an invisible thread seemed bound round her slowly moving feet, and drew her hack to the door. After a moment's pause she opened it and entered. The lamp was still burning, and Harmon lay sleeping, face burned in arms and pillow, as it trviug to shut out thought. She stopped for a moment in front of the statue. "So you have taken even his rug. Well, it is to V,e hoped that you will repav him some day." She sat on the edge of the bod and whispered his name. "Won't vou speak to mo Harmon? ' She waited". "I am very sorry that,) was so horrid." This was a great deal for Sophie to say; she never remembered advancing so far before. "Harmon" s h,* laid a. coaxing hand on his should, and the unrelaxing stiffness caused fear to spring within her like a gnome from the darkness. With her heart beating furiously in her throat.,

again she called him..Then,..with-a face drained of colour, she stepped back to the dbor," hover turning her back to the still clay figure or the man lying equally still on the bed. She fled down the .'stairs, and, without oven the .ceremony of knocking, rushed into, the room of Jean Fourehette, a medical 'student.

" Come, come," she said, breathlessly, laying imperative fingers on his wrist. "Harmon West —the. sculptor—on the top floor—:he is ill—come quickly.-''

"It. was all the man could do to keep pace with her as she flew back up the stairs. The moment he entered the room lie knew. ■' He bent over ihe lied. . ' "He is dead, mademoiselle."

" It cannot be," .She smiled conxingIy, as if she would persuade him to withdraw his words. Then, in answer to his face she flew to the bed, and bent .over the still figure. J

"Harmon, lift your head,!' she said, persuasively. "See, I. am {waiting -.to put your head on my breast. It will warm yon; you like it . there."- .Forgetting what the* man had} said, she 'half-whispered, -" What is tliij. matter?" "Mademoiselle, you can iot . warm him. He is dead. He has b?en frozen. See, he has no covering." Antomatieally his eyes searched for' the. bedcovering, till it rested on the . rugdraped figure. She follower his gaze; then, stopping towards it, spoke, with brimming eyes, .as ■ she unci d the. rug and other wrappings. " Mon pauvre petit, you lave • sacrificed yourself for her." Ii e,xnlanation, she added, "He was afraid his clay might freeze—so " Then, falling on her knees, beside th i bed, she sobbed wildly. - - . . "Oh. mon-Dieu —it is my fault. He could not come to me for dielp. Mon Dieu —mon Dieu!" ' "How beautiful!" It, was the first tribute to Harmon's masterpiece. Then, suddenly realising that he stood in the presence of death and beauty, he uncovered revently, and bowed his head as he left the room —left the living woman 'on her knees, sobbing silently.; the man lying still, looking most triumphant ,' a'nd the womjan of clay smilimc on both. In the ; uncertain light he was not quite sure whether she smiled in pity or in mockery.

Sophie did not go away on Pierre Lefarge's' yacht. She hajuntecl the Ralon, watching the admiring crowd that surrounded "La Femnje Tiiante." The tragedy of its creation added to the interest° excited, by the inerit and beauty of the. .work itself. 'There were miinv who wanted to he told what her smile meant. But of the two who could have told, one was silent for ever, and the other, a little black-robed ncure, standing'in-silent contemplation before the statue, would not speak. •The stone woman had robbed Sophie, of her smile, as it had robbed Harmon of his. life. . ..>'-_•