The old pump was mute—the speech was ended—its "song had died into an echo." We passed on mournful and thoughtful. Republics are ungrateful—old friends are forgotten with a change of fashion, and there is a period to the greatness of town pumps as well as the glory of individuals.
THE TWO PORTRAITS.
"Beautiful! beautiful!" exclaimed Ernest Lavalle, as, throwing himself back in his chair, he contemplated, with eyes half shut, a lovely countenance that smiled on him from a canvas, to which he had just added a few hesitating touches. It was but a sketch—little more than outline and dead coloring, and a misty haze seemed spread over the face, so that it looked vision-like and intangible. The young painter's exclamation was not addressed to his workmanship—he was not even looking at that faint image; but, through its medium, was gazing on lineaments as rare and fascinating as ever floated through a poet's or an artist's dream. Deep, lustrous blue eyes, in whose depth sincerity and feeling lay crystallized; features as regular as those of a Grecian statue; a lip melting, ripe, and dewy, half concealing, half revealing, a line of pearls; soft brown hair, descending in waves upon a neck and shoulders of satin surface and Parian firmness. Such were some of the external traits of loveliness belonging to
"A creature not too bright and good
For human nature's daily food,"
who had completely actualized the ideal of the young Parisian artist, into whose studio we have introduced our readers. The fair original, whose portrait is before us, was Rose d'Amour, a beautiful actress of one of the metropolitan theatres, who had just made her debut with distinguished success. There was quite a romance in her history. Of unknown parents, she had commenced her career—like the celebrated Rachel—as a street singer, and was looking forward to no more brilliant future, when her beauty, genius, and purity of character attracted the attention of a distinguished newspaper editor, by whose benevolent generosity she was enabled to prepare herself for the stage, by two or three years of assiduous study. The success of his protégée more than repaid the kind patron for his exertions and expenditure.
A word of Ernest Lavalle, and it shall suffice. He was the son of a humble vine dresser in one of the agricultural departments of France. His talent for drawing, early manifested, attracted the notice of his parish priest, whose earnest representations induced his father to send the boy to Paris, and give him the advantages afforded by the capital for students of art. In the great city, Ernest allowed none of the attractions, by which he was surrounded, to divert him from the assiduous pursuit of his beloved art. His mornings were passed in the gallery of the Louvre, his afternoons in private study, and his evenings at the academy, where he drew from casts and the living model. The only relaxation he permitted himself, was an occasional excursion in the picturesque environs of the French capital; and he always took his sketch book with him, thus making even his pleasure subservient to his studies. Two prizes obtained, for a drawing and a picture, secured for him the patronage of the academy, at whose expense he was sent to Italy, to pursue his studies in the famous galleries of Rome and Florence. He returned with a mind imbued with the beauty and majesty of the works of those great masters, whose glory will outlive the canvas and marble which achieved it, determined to win for himself a niche in the temple of Fame, or perish in his laborious efforts to obtain it. At this time he was in his twenty-second year. A vigorous constitution was his heritage; and his rounded cheek glowed with the warm color of health. His strictly classical features were enhanced by the luxuriance of his hair, which he wore flowing in its native curls, while his full beard and mustache relieved his face from the charge of effeminacy.
Ernest was yet engaged in the contemplation of the unfinished work—or rather in dreaming of the bright original—when a light tap was heard at his door. He opened it eagerly, and his poor studio was suddenly illuminated, as it were, by the radiant apparition of Rose d'Amour. She was dressed with a charming simplicity, which well became a sylph like form, that required no adventitious aid from art.
"Good morning, Monsieur Lavalle!" said the beautiful actress, cheerfully, as she dropped gracefully into the fauteuil prepared for her reception. "You find me in the best possible humor to-day, thanks to this bright morning sun, and to the success of last night. Mon Dieu! so many bouquets! you can't think! Really, the life of an artiste begins to be amusing. Don't you find it so, as a painter?"