"But the Fräulein cannot paint me always," I said; "that would at last become too monotonous. With you it is different: such a head as yours is not to be met with again."
"Yes," said the sergeant. "It is curious: one never believed it; in fact one hardly knew he had a head; but that's the way they all talk that come here, and they want me in all their studios; and Fräulein Paula did lend me once or twice, but in the other pictures one looks like a bear with seven senses, and don't know himself again."
"And how is she?" I asked.
"Oh, well enough, if we did not have to work so much; but from morning, as soon as it is light enough, until evening when it is too dark to tell one color from another, working here in the studio, or copying in the museum--no bear could stand it, let alone such a good young lady who has not yet got over her father's death, and secretly weeps for it every day. It is a real pity."
The old man turned away, laid the brushes in the box, and passed the back of his hand quickly over his eyes.
I stood with folded arms before the picture, which no longer pleased me when I thought that she worked on it unresting from morning till night, while grief for the loss of her beloved father still dimmed her eyes. It would be a great thing to have fifty thousand thalers and be able to say: "You shall not have so hard a life of it; you shall not lose your beautiful eyes like your poor mother."
"How is Frau von Zehren?" I asked.
"Well enough in health," answered the sergeant, moving back the easel; "but she has scarcely a glimpse of light; and the doctor, who ought to know best, told her, when she asked him, that there was no hope that she would ever see again."
"And Benno and the others?"
A bright gleam passed over the old man's brown face,