“Sí, señor; every night at this hour.”
Her manner was utterly impersonal; her eyes still held that listless, apathetic stare. I gazed into them steadily: and then, far down in their depths, I seemed to see lurking a shadowy look of appeal.
“I have been examining your portrait,” I said. “It is a very—curious picture, is it not?”
A faint little glow of color came into the girl’s cheeks. She seemed somehow stronger now; but it was a gain of strength rather more mental than physical. I sensed dimly that, talking with me, her mind was clearing. She hesitated, regarding me appraisingly.
“A very, very curious portrait indeed it is, señor.” Again she paused; and then, as though she had come to a sudden decision, she added slowly: “A very curious portrait, señor. To me it has no meaning. Once I said that to the maestro, and he was very angry. He told me I was mad, because I could not see the art—the wonderful art in his work. He beat me then.” She shuddered at the memory. “But that was very long ago, señor, and never have I said it since. And every night I pose.”
“You are ill, señorita?” I said gently.
“The portrait needs so much of me,” she answered. And then some thought or memory that her words did not reveal made her shudder again. “I am ill, señor, as you say. Very ill. And that, too, makes the maestro very angry. I am not so beautiful now for the portrait. And soon I shall die—and then I can pose no longer.”
I leaned toward her. “You can trust me, señorita,” I said. “You are ill-treated here—he treats you badly?”
She looked searchingly into my eyes; then she swiftly drew back her loose sleeve. The white flesh of her upper arm was scarred with many scars.
“The portrait, señor—it is life he paints there. And one cannot paint life without using life to paint with. That he says, señor—and he takes what there is in me to give.”