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Show day when he was, as usual, attempting to transfer her to canvas, a particularly atrocious tree which he had introduced to the background attracted her attention. "Jacques," said she, "don't you think that you are - well, that you're losing a little of your skill?" "What?" shouted Eugene. "I mean - that is - I'm afraid that I keep you so much from your work that -." "I only hope that you may keep me from it forever," returned the amorous Eugene, And so the dangerous moment passed. But this state of affairs could not last forever. One fine day, as Eugene was seated upon a divan thinking of his lady-love, who had just departed, who should enter but Jacques Bruhiere. Yes, there he was, with his attendant carrying his umbrella, his sketch books, his camp stools, his baggage - a true artist just from the country. The false one trembled as he thought that his dream was over. Had he been a Borgia he would have slain his friend. As he was not, he pressed his hand warmly, and bade him welcome. But how could he extricate himself from his dilemma? How could he answer to a high spirited woman for the deception he had practiced upon her? As to persuading Jacques to consent to any arrangement for keeping up the deception, that was out of the question; where his art was concerned the painter would prove as deaf as a post, and as unmanageable as a balky horse. So Eugene was puzzled. Finally a bright idea occurred to him. "Why not," thought he, "give a comic turn to the affair. If properly done Leonie will be disarmed. She is easily moved to laughter, and then I will explain and beg her forgiveness." Alas! Poor Eugene's idea was not a happy one. The next day when Leonie appeared it was Jacques who met her at the door. He was in blouse, cap, and carried palette and brushes. "Can I see M. (Monsieur) Bruhiere?" she asked, with some little surprise. "That is my name, madame," replied the painter. "You Jacques Bruhiere!" said she with an amused laugh, and she pushed by him and entered the studio. "You the great painter? No, no!" and she seated herself and looked at him defiantly. But if she was at ease in the studio, he was more so, Her quick woman's eye noted this, and on the easel there was already begun a canvas in which she recognized the master's touch. She picked up a little Hindee god which stood on the table beside her, and fingered it nervously. Her hands trembled, the little monster slipped from them. The artist stepped to the wall and rang the bell. The door opened and a servant entered, clad in livery and wearing an apron, rendered necessary by the fact of his cleaning brushes. "Did monsieur ring?" he asked. Leonie stared at him and grew white. "Yes, Jean," replied the artist. "Gather up the fragments of this trifle, which madame has unfortunately broken. Now," said he, turning to Leonie, "if madame will kindly inform me to what I owe the honor of this vis-." He stopped. Her white, set face, her starry eyes frightened him. "A lackey!" she hissed; "a base lackey! And I have loved this heartless, cruel, lying wretch!" With a sudden impulse of fury she snatched up a pretty toy, a silver poniard, which lay on the table and sprang at Eugene. Quick as a flash the artist dashed between them. But quick as he was he was too late. The poniard struck Eugene in the side, inflicting a deep wound. As she did so Leonie uttered a shriek and fainted away. Eugene's comedy had become a tragedy. "Truly a pretty sight for the studio of an honest, hard-working painter," groaned Jacques Bruhiere, as he gazed upon two prostrate forms. "This comes of obliging your friends. Catch me doing it again. |