Mrs. Taine hastened to turn the artist's embarrassed attention to an
appreciation that had the appearance, at least, of a more enduring value.
Drawing, with affectionate solicitude, close to her husband, she
asked,--in a voice that was tremulous with loving care and anxiety to
please,--"Do you like it, dear?"
"It is magnificent, splendid, perfect!" This effort to give his praise of
the artist's work the appearance of substantial reality cost the wretched
product of lust and luxury a fit of coughing that racked his burnt-out
body almost to its last feeble hold upon the world of flesh and, with a
force that shamed the strength of his words, drove home the truth that
neither his praise nor his scorn could long endure. When he could again
speak, he said, in his husky, rasping whisper,--while grasping the
painter's hand in effusive cordiality,--"My dear fellow, I congratulate
you. It is exquisite. It will create a sensation, sir, when it is
exhibited. Your fame is assured. I must thank you for the honor you have
done me in thus immortalizing the beauty and character of Mrs. Taine." And
then, to his wife,--"Dearest, I am glad for you, and proud. It is as
worthy of you as paint and canvas could be.
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