Part 24 (1/2)

”Truth is always terrible,” answered Reanda. ”But you cannot say that it is not like her.”

”Horribly like. It is diabolical!”

”And yet it is a beautiful head,” said the artist. ”Perhaps you are too near.” He himself crossed the hall, and then turned round to look at his work. ”It is better from here,” he said. ”Will you come?”

She went to his side. The huge face and wildly streaming hair stood out as though in three dimensions from the wall. The great, strong mouth smiled at her with a smile that was at once evil and sad and fatal. The strange eyes looked her through and through from beneath the vast brow.

”It is diabolical, satanical!” she responded, under her breath.

Reanda still smiled wickedly and watched her. The face seemed to grow and grow till it filled the whole range of vision. The dark eyes flashed; the lips trembled; the flaming hair quivered and waved and curled up like snakes that darted hither and thither. Yet it was horribly like Gloria, and the fresh, rich oil colours gave it her startling and vivid brilliancy.

It was the sudden and enormous expression of a man of genius, strung and stung, till irritation had to find its explosion through the one art of which he was absolute master--in a fearful caricature exaggerating beauty itself to the bounds of the devilish.

”I cannot bear it!” cried Francesca.

She s.n.a.t.c.hed the big brush from his hand, and, running lightly across the room, dashed the colour left in it across the face in all directions, over the eyes and the mouth, and through the long red hair.

In ten seconds nothing remained but confused daubs and splashes of brilliant paint.

”There!” cried Francesca. ”And I wish I had never seen it!”

Still holding the brush in her hand, she turned her back to the obliterated sketch and faced Reanda, with a look of girlish defiance and satisfaction. His face was grave now, but he seemed pleased with what he had done.

”It makes no difference,” he said. ”You will never forget it.”

He felt that he was revenged for the smile she had bestowed upon his apparent surprise at Gloria's beauty, when she had followed the girl into the hall, and had seen him start. He could not conceal his triumph.

”That is the young lady whom you thought I might wish to marry,” he said. ”You know me little after so many years, Donna Francesca. You have bestowed much kindness upon a man whom you do not know.”

”My dear Reanda, who can understand you? But as for kindness, do not let me hear the word between you and me. It has no meaning. We are always good friends, as we were when I was a little girl and used to play with your paints. You have given me far more than I can ever repay you for, in your works. I do not flatter you, my friend. Cupid and Psyche, there in your frescoes, will outlive me and be famous when I am forgotten--yet they are mine, are they not? And you gave them to me.”

The sweet young face turned to him with an unaffected, grateful smile.

His sad features softened all at once.

”Ah, Donna Francesca,” he said gently, ”you have given me something better than Cupid and Psyche, for your gift will live forever in heaven.”

She looked thoughtfully into his eyes, but with a sort of question in her own.

”Your dear friends.h.i.+p,” he added, bending his head a little. Then he laughed suddenly. ”Do not give me a wife,” he concluded.

”And you, Reanda--do not make wicked caricatures of women you have only seen once! Besides, I go back to it again. I saw you start when she pa.s.sed you at the door. You were surprised at her beauty. You must admit that. And then, because you are irritated with her, you take a brush and daub that monstrous thing upon the wall! It is a shame!”

”I started, yes. It was not because she struck me as beautiful. It was something much more strange. Do you know? She is the very portrait of Donna Maria, who was in the Carmelite convent at Subiaco, and who was burned to death. I have often told you that I remembered having seen her when I was a boy, both at Gerano and at the Palazzo Braccio, before she took the veil. There is a little difference in the colouring, I think, and much in the expression. But the rest--it is the image!”

Francesca, who could not remember her ill-fated kinswoman, was not much impressed by Reanda's statement.

”It makes your caricature all the worse,” she answered, ”since it was also a caricature of that holy woman. As for the resemblance, after all these years, it is a mere impression. Who knows? It may be. There is no portrait of Sister Maria Addolorata.”

”Oh, but I remember well!” insisted Reanda.