"Voolish? Ah, ve are all vools vhen ve love. I had loved: she vas almost mine, but she vas too young, a child dancer of feefteen summers. So sveet, so beautiful. She learnt from me my art, every jeste, every perfection. She vould have been my vife, my queen—but after zis, I ran. Vhen my senses came I knew that I could be no more rich—only a poor dead dog in her vay. For zis I fled ze country. I came back after feefteen year, no longer ze great Salvador, but plain M. Dupres—back to hear of Betty——"
"Betty!" I echoed.
"Yes, the first dancer in London—my leetle Betty—you have zeen her?" And he lifted a hand to a portrait over his pillow.
I recognised with dismay the child face—the merry smile at the corner of the lip.
"This is the very woman I am trying to paint."
"Sapristi!" he exclaimed, and again wiped his brow. "You vill keep my zecret? Ze years of zacrifice, let them not be known to her." His face was wrinkled and livid with anxiety.
"Your confidence is sacred; I am honoured by it," I said, extending a hand, for Laura just then opened the door upon us.
She laughed whimsically at my almost emotional leave-taking of a total stranger, and chaffed me about it when we got outside.
"I have much to be grateful for to him—to you," I said. "My picture is almost achieved. I may be worthy to follow at the heels of Degas yet."
When Betty next came to the studio she thought my painting was completed, and skipped about in front of the canvas with the genuine joy of gratified vanity.