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I have but a line to give to the one or two other men of abnormally splendid gifts whom this century has seen. Henri Regnault's extraordinary talent was extinguished almost at the first spark, and it is beyond prophecy to tell what it might have produced. His eccentricities seem to have been quite genuine, due to an overflow of power rather than to posing or grimace. His love of his art, his passion for color, were almost frantic in their intensity, but sincere. A certain exaggerated phrase of his is but the protest of reaction against the literary painting, the erudite and philosophical art, of his time. "La vie," he cries, "étant courte, il faut peindre tant qu'on a des yeux. Donc on ne doit pas les fatiguer
Because they have every sort of capacity every sort of cleverness and no character! David walked beside him in silence. He thought suddenly of Regnault's own picture its strange cruelty and force, its craftsman's brilliance. And the recollection puzzled him. Regnault, however, had spoken with passion, and as though out of the fulness of some sore and long-familiar pondering.
There was a recess beside the great mantelpiece, and in it hung Regnault's famous picture, "The Dancer," all scarlet frock and white flesh against an amber background. "That?" exclaimed O'Neill. "Lola?" Buscarlet nodded; he had forced a good effect. "That is she," he answered.
But if one went further, incurred a part of his confidence, and ascertained his real flavor, then, as O'Neill once said, it was like visiting one's kitchen; it killed one's appetite. While he pondered, he was none the less watchful; he saw the change on the still face as soon as it showed. With a quick exclamation he crossed to the bed. Regnault's jaw had set; his eyes were wide and rigid.
'Were you not in the Louvre this morning with Mademoiselle Delaunay? he asked, lowering his voice a little; 'you are a stranger? 'Yes, an Englishman, David stammered, taken by surprise. Regnault's look swept over the youth's face, kindling in an instant with the artist's delight in beautiful line and tint. 'Are you going now? 'Yes, said David hurriedly. 'It must be late? 'Midnight, past.
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