When the tumult of feeling had subsided, the aged mourner kissed Pierre’s hands, and said, “It is wonderfully like her, in every feature and every tint. It seems as if it would move and breathe.”
“She will move and breathe,” replied Pierre; “only give me time.”
His voice sounded so wildly, and his great deep-set eyes burned with such intense enthusiasm, that his friend was alarmed. They clasped each other’s hands, and spoke more quietly of the beloved one. “This is all that remains to us, Pierre,” said the old man. “We are alone in the world. You were a friendless orphan when you came to me: and I am childless.”
With a passionate outburst of grief, the young man replied, “And it was I, my benefactor, who made you so. Wretch that I am!”
From that time the work went on with greater zeal than ever. Pierre often forgot to taste of food, so absorbed was he in the perfection of his machine. First, the arms moved obedient to his wishes, then the eyes turned, and the lips parted. Meanwhile, his own face grew thinner and paler, and his eyes glowed with a wilder fire.
Finally, it was whispered in the village that Pierre Berthoud was concealed in Antoine Breguet’s cottage: and officers came to arrest him. But the venerable old watch-maker told the story so touchingly, and painted so strongly the young man’s consuming agony of grief and remorse, and pleaded so earnestly that he might be allowed to finish a wonderful image of his beautiful grandchild, that they promised not to disturb him till the work was accomplished.
Two years from the day of Pierre’s return, on the anniversary of the memorable birth-day, he said. “Now, my father, I have done all that art can do. Come and see the beautiful one.” He led him into the little room where Rosabella used to work. There she sat, spinning diligently. The beautifully formed bust rose and fell under her neat boddice. Her lips were parted, and her eyes followed the direction of the thread. But what made it seem more fearfully like life, was the fact that ever and anon the wheel rested, and the maiden held the suspended thread, with her eye-lids lowered, as if she were lost in thought. Above, the flower-stand, near by, hung the bird-cage, with Florien’s artificial canary. The pretty little automaton had been silent long; but now its springs were set in motion, and it poured forth all its melodies.
The bereaved old man pressed Pierre’s hand, and gazed upon his darling grand-child silently. He caused his arm-chair to be brought into the room, and ever after, while he retained his faculties, he refused to sit elsewhere.
The fame of this remarkable android soon spread through all the region round about. The citizens of Geneva united in an earnest petition that the artist might be excused from any penalty for the accidental murder he had committed. Members of the State Council came and looked at the breathing maiden, and touched the beautiful flesh, which seemed as if it would yield to their pressure. They saw the wild haggard artist, with lines of suffering cut so deeply in his youthful brow, and they at once granted the prayer of the citizens.
But Pierre had nothing more to live for. His work in the world was done. The artificial energy, supplied by one absorbing idea was gone; and the contemplation of his own work was driving him to madness. It so closely resembled life that he longed more and more to have it live. The lustrous eyes moved, but they had no light from the soul, and they would not answer to his earnest gaze. The beautiful lips parted, but they never spoke kind words, as in days of yore. The image began to fill him with supernatural awe, yet he was continually drawn toward it by a magic influence. Three months after its completion, he was found at daylight, lying at its feet, stone dead.