“The sunbeam seems to promise that,” said he smiling, and handed me the next.
Second picture. Scene, the splendid salon of a French chateau. Through the window, a mad mob of sans culottes were visible, forcing the grand entrance. Within, myself — costume, purple velvet, lace, and rapier — and Locksley, in blouse and sabots, were bearing off a fainted lady, dark-haired, and robed in yellow.
“Twice immortal!” said I. “But why avert the heroine’s face?”
“Good female models are hard to find. My heroine should be worthy of my hero. Have you one of your own, whose features I might insert?”
“Have I found my heroine? Not yet, — that is, not certainly.”
Dreeme handed me the third picture. “My Incognita,” said he, “is willing to encounter bad company out of gratitude to her benefactors. Please appreciate the compliment!”
Third picture. Scene, the same splendid salon of the same chateau. Without, instead of the sans culottes, a group of soldiers of the Republic stood on guard. Within, the same dark-haired lady, — costume, yellow satin (it reminded me of that coverlet of Louis Philippe’s which had served Dreeme for wrapper), — the same heroine as in the second picture, sat with her back to the spectator. At a table beside her was an official personage, signing a passport. He was dressed with careful coxcombry in Robespierre’s favorite color, and resembled that demon slightly, but enough to recall him. Behind him, I — yes, I myself again — could be seen through a half-opened closet-door, sullenly sheathing my sword in obedience to a sign from the lady. Locksley also was there, in blouse and stealthy bare feet, playing prudence to valor and holding me back.
“Ah!” said I, “another person with us in the pillory of your picture. Strange! Your Robespierre might almost be a portrait of Densdeth.”
“Indeed! It is a typical bad face, and may resemble several bad men.”
“Singularly like Densdeth!” I repeated. “The same cold-blooded resolve, the same latent sneer, the same suppressed triumph, even the coxcombry you have given to your gentle butcher of ’93, — all are Densdeth’s. May you not have seen and remembered his marked face?”
“Possibly.” He evaded my inquiring look, as he replied.
“Perhaps he has stared at you for an instant in a crowd. Perhaps you have caught a look of his from the window of a railroad-car. He may at some moment, without your conscious notice, have stamped himself ineffaceably upon your mind.”
“It may be. An artist’s brain receives and stores images often without distinct volition. But you may lend my villain a likeness from your own memory.”
“Yes; our talk about Densdeth, and your warnings against an exaggerated danger are fresh in my mind. Certainly, as I see the face, it is Densdeth’s very self.”
“Now,” said Dreeme, “take your choice of my three sketches. Three simple stories, — which will you have? I painted them for your selection, and have taken much grateful pleasure in the work. One is for you, one for Locksley, one for myself, — a souvenir for each of us in happier days.”
“Mine will be precious as a souvenir, apart from its great value as Art. And, let me tell you, Dreeme, in their manner, these studies are as able as your Lear. The anecdotes hold their own with the tragedy. I believe you are the man we have been waiting for.”
“Your praise thrills me.”
“Do not let it spoil you,” said I, willing in my turn to act the Mentor.
“Mr. Byng,” said he gravely, “my life has been so deepened and solemnized by earnest trial and bitter experience, that vanity is, I trust, annihilated. I shall do my work faithfully, because my nature commands me to it; but I can never have the exultant feeling of personal pride in it as mine.”
“That too is a legitimate joy. You will have it when the world gives you its verdict, ‘Well done.’“
Dreeme sighed, and seemed to shrink away.
“To face the world!” said he, — “how dare I? And yet I must. My scanty means will not last me many weeks longer.”
“My dear Dreeme,” said I, “my purse is not insolent with fulness; but it holds enough to keep two spiritual beings, like ourselves, in oysters and ale, slaw and ‘Wing’s pethy,’ — crackers being thrown in.”
“Thank you,” said he, smiling; “but I suppose I must go out into daylight, brave my fate, and take my risk.”
“There is no risk. You must succeed.”
“Ah!” said he, and tears stood in his great sad eyes; “I speak of another risk. Of another danger, which I shudder at. Here I am safe, unharming and unharmed. How can I take up my life’s responsibilities again?”
“Dreeme,” said I, “in any other but you, I should almost say that these fancies were unmanly.”
He evaded my eye, as I said this, but did not seem insulted.
“But,” I continued, “there is a certain kind of courage in your working here alone, — enough to establish your character. If you want a rough pugilistic ally against this mysterious peril of yours, take me into your confidence. Here are my fists! they are yours. What ogre shall I hit? What dragon shall I choke?”
“You are neglecting my poor gift,” said he, resolutely changing the subject; “make your choice of the three pictures, and I will show you my portfolio of drawings. You shall see what my fingers do when they obey the dictates of my careless fancy.”
“I choose the third of the series. Neither of those where I or my semblance is the chief figure, — neither where I am doing, but where I am receiving the favor. My only regret is that I cannot look through the back of her head and see the features of the lady, whose gesture tells me, ‘Sheathe sword and swallow ire!’ Robespierre — Densdeth too, that adds to its value. I must hang it up where he can see it. I am curious to know whether he will recognize himself.”
“O no! Promise me that you will not show it at present. No, not to any one!”
“What, not identify myself with the début of the coming man? May I not be your herald?”
“Wait, at least, till I am ready to follow up the announcement of my coming. No premature pæans, if you please!”
“I obey, of course. But I should vastly like to show it to Towers, Sion, and Pensal. You know I have a growing intimacy with that trio of great artists. They would heartily welcome your advent.”
“Spare me the dread of their condemnation! Keep my little gift to yourself, at present! Here is my heap of drawings. Look at them, and judge with your usual kindness!”
“So these were the thoughts too hot for your brain to hold. These represent what you must say, not what you chose to say. I perceive that the bent of your mind is not toward tragedy.”
Very masterly sketches they were! A fine fancy, a subtle imagination, a large heart, had conceived them, an accurate and severe artistic sense had controlled and developed the thought, and an unerring hand had executed it. Dreeme was a youth, certainly not more than twenty-one; and yet here was the maturity of complete manhood. Whether he had had opportunities for studying classic art, or whether his genius had seized in common life that fine quality which we name “classic,” these drawings of his would have stood the test with the purest of the Italian masters, in the days before Italian art had suffered blight, — that blight which befell it when progress ceased in the land, and a tyrannical Church bade the nation pause and let the world go by.
Dreeme’s female figures were not drawn with the