Then in her most dramatic tones she demanded, "Who is the child, then?"
He told her.
"Where does this Madame Moulton live?" she asked.
He told her that also. Then, with a dismissing wave of the hand, Sarah bade him farewell. It was all over. He had survived! Boston would never know.
The next day I received a note from Sarah Bernhardt, asking me if I would allow her to make a bust of _la charmante pet.i.te fille_. I answered that I should be delighted. Then came another note telling me at what time _l"enfant_ should come for the first sitting.
I took Nina to the studio, which was beyond the Boulevard de Courcelles in a courtyard. It was enchanting to watch the artist at work. She was dressed like a man: she wore white trousers and jacket, and a white _foulard_ tied artistically about her head. She had short and frizzly hair, and she showed us how she did it, gathering the four corners as if it were a handkerchief, with the ends sticking up on the top of her head.
She smoked cigarettes all the time she was working.
She posed Nina in the att.i.tude she thought interesting, with head down and eyes up--a rather tiring position. And to keep _l"enfant_ quiet she devised all sorts of things. Sometimes she would rehea.r.s.e her roles in the voice they speak of as golden; because it coins gold for her, I suppose.
The rehearsing of her roles was not so amusing, as there were no _repliques_; but what kept Nina most quiet was when Sarah told her of the alb.u.m she was making for her. Every artist she knew was working at some offering, and when it would be finished Nina was to have it. She would expatiate for hours on the smallest details. Meissonier, for instance, was painting a water-color, a scene of the war: a German regiment attacking a French inn, which was being defended by French soldiers. Then Gounod was writing a bit of music dedicated to _la charmante modele_, and so forth.
Nina would listen with open mouth and glistening eyes, and at every sitting she would say, "Et mon alb.u.m?" expecting each time to see it forthcoming. But it never came forth. It only existed in Madame Bernhardt"s fertile brain. It had no other object than to keep the model still. It seemed cruel to deceive the child. Even to the last, when Nina had said for the last time, "And shall I have my alb.u.m to-day?" Sarah answered that it was not _quite_ ready, as the binding was not satisfactory, and other tales, which, if not true, had the desired effect, and she finished the bust. It was not a very good likeness, but a very pretty artistic effort, and was sent to the next Exposition, receiving "honorable mention," perhaps more honorable than we mentioned her at home.
She gave me a duplicate of it made of terra-cotta.
Don"t expect any more letters, for I shall be very busy before my departure for America, which is next week, and then I shall.... Well, wait!
Good-by.
THE END