THE NABOB.
35

lost in that immense building, sonorous only
under the two arches which lead m and out;
but the faces acquire an astonishing intensity,
a relief full of concentrated motion aud anima-
tion, chiefly in the vast recess where the buffet
stands filled to overflow with a gesticulating
crowd and where the women's bonnets and the
servant's anrons shine brilliantly on the back-
ground of "the men's somber clothing. the
same impression is produced in the long central
avenue, where the swarming masses of visitors
contrast with the immobility of the exhibited
statues and the hardly noticeable shiver which
runs along their clayey-white forms and then
ecstatic movements.
Look here are wings congealed in the act of
motion;' then, a globe, supported by four alle-
gorical figures, whose turning attitudes vaguely
remind you of a waltzing rhythm-a poised en-
semble, which awakens admirably the idea ot
the earth whirling away into space—arms
raised as if for a signal, bodies starting up
heroically, and representing au allegory, a sym-
bol They look as if, struck dead m the act of
motion they were now endowed with immor-
tality, restored to history, to legend, to the ideal
world of museums, where the curiosity or ad-
miration of nations may do them reverence.
Although Felicia's bronze group did not pos-
sess the dimensions of those great works, its
exceptional merits had, nevertheless, been ac-
knowledged by the place awarded to it—one, ot
the central ronds-points, or cross-roads, where a
crowd, standing at a respectful distance, and
looking over the hedge of guards and police-
men, stared at the Bey of Tunis and suite, in
their long burnous, with sculptural folds, which
made them appear like so many living statues,
surrounding the marble ones.
The Bey, who had arrived in Paris a few
days before, and who was the lion of all "first
nights " had desired to witness the opening of
the   Exhibition.     He   was   "an   enlightened
prince " " a patron of art;" he possessed at the
Bardo a wonderful gallery of Turkish pictures,
and chromolithographs of all the battles of the
First Empire.    The sight of the big Arab grey-
hound had caught his attention from the en-
trance.                                ,        .  „       ,        .    .
" Yes, that was a true sloogui, the sloogm ot
his country, the companion of all his hunts,
with its fine, muscular limbs.   He laughed in
his black beard; he stroked the back of the an-
imal its muscles; it seemed as if he wished to
excite it still more.    But the finely-shaped ani-
mal the beast of prey, ardent in love and hunt-
ing'doubly drunk, its eyes glaring, its nostrils
open its teeth shining, all its limbs stretched
and indefatigable in their steel-like elasticity,
seemed already to touch its prey, to lick it with
the tip of its hanging tongue, and to sharpen its
teeth with a ferocious rictus.   If you only look-
ed at it, vou felt inclined to say: "He has it.
But a glance at the fox sufficed to reassure you.
With its velvety shiny crupper, its feline look,
skimming the ground without effort, you felt it
had a charmed life.    It turned, while running,
its fine head and pointed ears,  towards the
hound, with an expression of ironical security,
which clearly told the gifts it had received from
the gods.
Whilst an Inspector of Fine Arts, who had
hastened forward, his official gear all awry, his
head bald to his very back, was explaining to
Mohamed the apologue of the " Dog and Fox '
as written in the catalogue, with the legend:
"It so happened that they met," and this re-
mark: "Bought by the Duke de Mora," our
stout friend Hemerlingue, blowing and perspir-
ing by the side of His Highness, had a good
deal to do to explain to him that this master-
piece of  sculpture was the work of the fair
rider he had seen the day before at the Bois.
How could a woman, with her feeble hands,
thus soften the hard bronze, and give it the ap-
pearance of living flesh?   Of all Paris wonders,
this was the most wonderful!    He therefore
inquired of the functionary whether there was
was not anything else of the same artist to be
seen?                                                  ¦
" Yes, monseigneur; another chef-dœuvre. If
your Highness will kindly come this way, I will
lead you."
The Bey resumed his walk with his suite.
They were all admirable types—chiseled feat-
ures and pure lineaments—a warm paleness,
the light of which was absorbed in the white-
ness of their haicks. Magnificently robed, they
contrasted with the busts that stood on two rows
along the avenue they had taken. These busts,
perched on their high stands, puny-looking in
the empty air—now that they were away from
the studio, from the surroundings where they
recalled great labor, a tender affection, a well-
filled and courageous existence—had the sad
look of people who have lost their way and are
rather ashamed to find themselves where they ,
are. With the exception of two or three busts of j
women, with rich shoulders covered with petri- I
fied lace and marble head-dresses, expressed
with that dash which gives them the lightness
of powdered coiffures—of a few children's pro-
files with simple lines, where the polished stone
looks like the moisture of life—all the rest were
nothing but wrinkles, furrows, crispations and
grimaces, expressing excess of work and mo-
tion, nervousness and fever: the opposite of that
sculptural art, meant to convey an idea of re-
pose and of serene beauty.
At  least the plainness of the Nabob was
stamped with energy, he had the bold, caddish
look of an adventurer, and that expression of
goodness so well rendered by the artist, who
had   taken the  precaution of   deepening her
plaster with a layer of ochre, and had thereby
given it the sunburnt and swarthy complexion
of her model.    When the Arabs saw it they ut-
tered a low exclamation: "Bou-Said!" (Father j
of happiness).   That was the surname by which .
the Nabob went in Tunis, the label, so to speak, I
of his luck.    The Bey, thinking they had wish-
ed to mystify him by taking him before the j
hated mercanti, looked suspiciously at the in-
spector:                                               .
"Jansoulet?" he   asked,  with his guttural
voice.
"Yes,  your Highness,  Bernard   Jansoulet,
the new depute for Corsica."
This time,  the Bey turned   loweringly   to
Hemerlingue:
' Depute ?"
' Yes,  your Highness,  since this morning,
but there is nothing settled yet."
And the banker,  raising his voice, added,
stammeringly:                                            .
"A French Chamber will never admit that
adventurer in their number."
No matter! a blow had been dealt to the
blind confidence of the Bey in his financial
Baron. He had so confidently affirmed that
the other would never be elected, that they
could act freely and fearlessly against him; and
now instead of the helpless man with a
tarnished reputation, behold! a representative
of the nation stood before him, a depute, whose
stone effigy the Parisians came here to admire!
For an Oriental there is necessarily an idea of
honor allied to such a public exhibition, and
that bust had the prestige of a statue erected on
a square.
Yellower still than usual, Hemerlingue in-
wardly cursed himself for his awkwardness and
imprudence; but how could he have suspected
such a thing as that? He had been assured that
the bust was not finished. Indeed, it had only
been brought there that morning; it seemed to
like its place, looked full of proud satisfaction,
and appeared to sneer at its enemies with a jolly
smile on its curled lip. This was truly a silent
revenge for the disaster of Saint Romans.
who were congratulating, and doing homage to
her. The Nabob hastened to join his voice to
theirs.
She was simply dressed in a black costume,
bordered and trimmed with jet.    The severity
of her toilette, was therefore relieved by the
light which the beads reflected, and by the
freshness of her delightful little bonnet of ostrich
feathers, which harmonized with the fine frizzly,
hair around her forehead and the wavy curl si
which divided the back, to such a degree, that!
the hair seemed a continuation of the fluffiness
of the feathers.
For a few minutes, the Bey, as cold and pas-
sionless as the sculptured figure itself, fixed his
eyes upon it without uttering a single word—a
straight furrow dividing his brow, on whicli his
courtiers alone could read his anger—then after
two words rapidly spoken in Arabic to order
the carriages and gather his scattered suite, he
walked with dignified gravity towards the door,
wi thout looking at anything else.    Wh o can say
what passes in those august brains, blase with
absolute power?   Already  our Western   sov-
ereigns have incomprehensible fancies, but that
is nothing compared to the whims of Eastern
despots.    The Inspector of Fine Arts, who had
expected to show His Highness through the
exhibition, and to gain by that walk the pretty
red-and-green ribbon of the Nisham-lftikahr,
never knew. the secret of this sudden flight.
At the very moment when the white haicks
were disappearing under the porch, and just in
time to catch a glimpse of their last folds float-
ing away, the Nabob came in by the central
entrance.    That morning he had received the
news : ' ' Elected by an overwhelming majority ;
and after a Sard anapalian breakfast, m which
the new Corsican depute had been well toasted,
he came with a few of his guests to show him-
self, to see his bust and to enjoy the plenitude
of his new glory.                                          . .
The first person whom he saw on arriving
was Felicia Ruys, standing and leaning against
the pedestal of a statue, surrounded by men
A crown of artists and men of the world
pressed eagerly forward before so much genius
joined to such perfect beauty.
Jenkins, bare-headed, gushing with warm
protestations, went from one to the other, re-
cruiting suffrages, but widening the circle
around that young celebrity, whose guardian
and corypheus he was fain to become.
His wife, meanwhile, was talking to the
young girl. Poor Madame Jenkins! he had
whispered to her with that cold, cruel voice,
which she alone knew: "You must go and
congratulate Felicia," and she had gone, stifling
her feelings ; for she knew, now, what things
lay hidden behind that paternal affection, al-
though she avoided an explanation with the
I Doctor as if she dreaded the consequences.
After Madame Jenkins it is the Nabob who
presents himself, and who, taking in his big
paws the two long well-gloved hands of the
artist, expresses his gratitude in a frank out-
I burst which brings tears into his own eyes:
"It is a great honor you have done me,
Mademoiselle, in associating my name with
yours, and my humble person to your tri-
umphant success. You prove thereby to all
those vermin who are gnawing at my heels that
you do not believe the slander which they
spread about me. Indeed, I shall never forget
this. When I have covered this magnificent
bust with gold and diamonds, I shall still be in
your debt."
Happily for the good Nabob, who feels more
strongly than he can express, he is obliged to
make room for all those who are attracted by
this brilliant talent, the popular artist: frantic
enthusiasts who, unable to find words to expresi
themselves,  disappear as they came; worldly
admirers, full of good-will, moved by a strong
desire to please,  but whose every word falls
like a douche of cold water; rivals and brother
artists, who shake hands with great energy, some
cordially indeed, but others with such a nerve-
less grasp that they leave behind the flabbiness
of their impress; a tall pretentious simpleton,
whose idiotic praise might, he thinks, give you
too much pleasure, and who therefore mixes
with it, lest it should spoil you, the proverbial
" grain of salt;" another who, in congratulating
you, proves to you that you do not understand
the first letter of your art; and, lastly, the busy-
body, who stops just long enough to whisper in
your  ear that  "So-and-so, the famous critic,
does not seem satisfied."   Felicia listened to all
this, unmoved,  exalted by her success above
the littleness of envy, and quite proud when-
ever a glorious veteran, some old companion of
her father, dropped a "Very well, little one,"
which carried her back into the past, to that
little corner formerly set apart for her in the
paternal studio, at the time she was beginning
to cut into the fame of the great Ruys a little
glory for herself.   In   reality, all   these con-
gratulations left her somewhat cold, because
there   was  one, more   desirable than all the
others which she was astonished at not having
yet received.    .    .    .    Yes, she thought of him
more than she had ever thought of any other
man    Was this love,  then, the great love, so
rare in an artist's soul, incapable   as it is of
giving itself up entirely to feeling? or was it
the mere desire of living an honest and com-
monplace life, well-sheltered  against ennvi—
that horrid ennui, the precursor of tempests
and which she was so right to dread?   At all
events if it was an illusion, she was herself
mistaken in it, and had for some days enjoyed
its delightful emotions; for love is so beautiful*
and strong, that its mere counterfeit, its mirage, 1
deceives us, and has the power to move us as
much as love itself.
Did it ever happen to you, when walking in
the street, your mind engaged about one, whose
image is enshrined in your heart, to be suddenly
warned of his approach by the presence of some
persons who bear a vague resemblance to the
absent one —premonitory images, sketches ot
the type about to appear, which issue from
1   .
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