2
Julie was recovering from an attack which left her mentally exhausted. She lay back in the sedan, her deep-rimmed eyes like smouldering coals. She arrived at the Museum an hour before the time agreed on with Floyd, wandered through the rooms, making notes about the hanging and grouping of new pictures. There was a small canvas in a corner which she thought was somewhat crowded in. She asked about it. It had been received very recently and was not yet catalogued. “Yes, it was badly hung.”
She sank down on a divan before the picture—a Swiss landscape, with a mountain background sloping down to a grassy plateau; below, a bank of mist, through which could be distinguished an old chapel, with a broken cross on top. In a corner, hardly visible to the naked eye, she read, “Val Sinestra,” and underneath, two letters, M. S.
She bent nearer, looking eagerly into the picture. Was it her imagination! or did she really see a shadowy outline of a man with a white figure in his arms? Martin! Martin! with flaming eyes, distorted face!—desperate! mad!
“A charming picture, isn’t it? like a Corot. It’s the first of this artist, he’s not known in America.”
It was a member of the committee who spoke. Then Floyd came up and introduced his business friends. She smiled, asked them if they had seen some gems in the next room, and led them away from that picture in the corner.
On arriving home she went through the house looking for something and finally found it, hidden away on a top shelf covered with dust; it was a small glass vase with a delicate stem. The engraving was beautiful like a white mist over it. The butler washed it and held it up to the light; colors flashed through it.
“It’s Bohemian glass, Madame. It will break easily.”
“No! It’s very strong, I’ve had it a long time.”
She put it on her bed-table, with a dark red rose in it. From that time the “headaches” were less frequent, the ravings about punishment ceased. Mary said to the doctor: