The next day I was in my studio in company with several young painters and sculptors when Benedetto came in accompanied by a woman of rare beauty, whom I need not describe, for you have seen her, madame, at my house. A joyous hurrah greeted the Italian, who said to me,—
“Ecco la Pandora! Hey! what do you think of her?”
“Marvellously beautiful; but would she pose?”
“Pooh!” exclaimed Benedetto, with an air which seemed to say: “I’d like to see her refuse.”
“But,” I remarked, “she would cost too much, a model of her beauty.”
“No; you need only make my bust—just a plaster cast—and give it to her.”
“Very good,” I said. Then I told my friends to go and leave us alone together.
Nobody minded me. Judging the wife by the husband, the eager young fellows pressed round her; while she, wounded and angered by the audacity of their eyes, looked like a caged panther irritated by peasants at a fair.
Going up to her and pulling her aside, Benedetto told her in Italian that I wanted to copy her from head to foot, and she must then and there take off her clothes. The woman gave him one withering look, and made for the door. Benedetto rushed forward to prevent her; while my comrades, for the honor of the studio, endeavored to bar his way.
Then began an argument between the wife and the husband; but, as I saw that Benedetto sustained his part of it with great brutality, I was angry, and, having a pretty vigorous arm, I pushed him aside, and took the wife, who was trembling all over, to the door. She said, in Italian, a few words of thanks, and disappeared instantly.