The Kill - Emile Zola [60]
When at last the great Worms received Renée, Maxime accompanied her into his studio. He ventured two or three times to speak up while the master was absorbed in contemplation of his client, much as Leonardo da Vinci is said by the high priests of art to have been absorbed in the presence of Mona Lisa. The master deigned to smile at the accuracy of Maxime’s observations. He had Renée stand in front of a mirror that stretched from floor to ceiling and knitted his brows in meditation while the young woman, in the grip of emotion, held her breath and tried to remain motionless. After a few minutes, the master, as if seized and shaken by inspiration, painted in bold, rapid strokes the masterpiece he had just conceived, spitting out his description in sharp, brief sentences: “Montespan dress in pale gray faille. . . . The train describing a rounded basque in front. . . . Big bows of gray satin catching it up at the hips. . . . And to top it all off, a puffed pinafore of pearl gray tulle, with the puffs separated by strips of gray satin.”
He meditated a while longer, seemed to reach down into the depths of his genius, and at last with the triumphant expression of a Sibyl on her tripod3 concluded, “We shall adorn the hair on this happy head with Psyche’s dreamy butterfly4 and its iridescent wings of azure.”
On other occasions, however, inspiration dragged its feet. In vain did the illustrious Worms summon it forth, concentrating all his faculties to no avail. He knitted his brow, turned pale, took his poor head between his hands and shook it in despair until, defeated at last, he threw himself down in his chair. “No,” he murmured in a pained voice, “no, not today. . . . It’s impossible. . . . You ladies expect too much. The well is dry.”
And he showed Renée the door, repeating, “It’s impossible, impossible, dear lady. You must come back another day. . . . You elude me this morning.”
The fine education that Maxime was receiving yielded its first result. At seventeen the boy seduced his stepmother’s chambermaid. To make matters worse, the girl became pregnant and had to be sent away to the country with her infant and a small stipend. Renée was terribly put out by the whole episode and remained that way for some time. Saccard became involved just long enough to settle the pecuniary aspect of the matter, but the young woman scolded her pupil roundly. To think he’d gone and compromised himself with a girl of that sort when she wanted to make a distinguished gentleman of him! What a ridiculous and shameful debut! What a disgraceful escapade! He might at least have started out with one of the ladies!
“Absolutely!” he answered quietly. “If your good friend Suzanne had been willing, she’s the one who would be leaving for the country.”
“Oh, you filthy scoundrel!” she muttered, disarmed and amused by the idea of Suzanne hiding out in the country on a stipend of 1,200 francs.
Then an even more amusing thought occurred to her, and, forgetting her role as indignant mother, she began to titter, placed her fingers over her mouth to hold back the laughter, cast a sidelong glance at Maxime, and stammered, “You know, Adeline is the one who would have given you a hard time and made a scene—”
She did not finish her sentence. Maxime was laughing with her. Renée’s effort to turn this escapade into a lesson in morality ended then and there.
Meanwhile, Aristide Saccard spent little time worrying about the “two children,” as he called his son and his second wife. He granted them absolute freedom, glad to see that they were good friends who filled the apartment with boisterous gaiety. The second-floor flat on the rue de Rivoli was a place of unusual activity. Doors were swinging all day long. The servants spoke in loud voices. Billowing skirts swept constantly