Petralto's Love Story - Page 2

promise to call on them, and we passed on; but there
was a look on his face which bespoke both sympathy and silence. He soon
complained of the cold, said the park pace irritated him, but still
passed and repassed the couple who had caused him such evident
suffering, as if he was determined to inure himself to the pain of
meeting them. During this interval I had time to notice the caressing,
lover-like attitude of the beauty's companion, and I said, as they
entered a stately house together, "Are they married?"

"Yes."

"He seems devotedly in love with her."

"He loved her two years before he saw her."

"Impossible."

"Not at all. I have a mind to tell you the story."

"Do. Come home with me, and we will have a quiet dinner together."

"No. I need to be alone an hour or two. Call on me about nine o'clock."

Petralto's rooms were a little astonishment to me. They were luxurious
in the extreme, with just that excess of ornament which suggests
under-civilization; and yet I found him smoking in a studio destitute of
everything but a sleepy-looking sofa, two or three capacious lounging
chairs, and the ordinary furniture of an artist's atelier. There was a
bright fire in the grate, a flood of light from the numerous gas jets,
and an atmosphere heavy with the seductive, fragrant vapor of Havana.

I lit my own cigar, made myself comfortable, and waited until it was
Petralto's pleasure to begin. After a while he said, "Jack, turn that
easel so that you can see the picture on it."

I did so.

"Now, look at it well, and tell me what you see; first, the
locality--describe it."

"A dim old wood, with sunlight sifting through thick foliage, and long
streamers of weird grey moss. The ground is covered with soft short
grass of an intense green, and there are wonderful flowers of wonderful
colors."

"Right. It is an opening in the forest of the Upper Guadalupe. Now, what
else do you see?"

"A small pony, saddled and bridled, feeding quietly, and a young girl
standing on tip-toe, pulling down a vine loaded with golden-colored
flowers."

"Describe the girl to me."

I turned and looked at my querist. He was smoking, with shut eyes, and
waiting calmly for my answer. "Well, she has--Petralto, what makes you
ask me? You might paint, but it is impossible to describe _light_; and
the girl is nothing else. If I had met her in such a wood, I should have
thought she was an angel, and been afraid of her."

"No angel, Jack, but a most exquisite, perfect flower of maidenhood.
When I first saw her, she