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Updated: May 9, 2025
Again, we are told that once upon a time he rounded a piece of slate to the size of a silver dollar, and threw it across the Rappahannock at Fredericksburg, the slate falling at least thirty feet on the other side. Many strong men have since tried the same feat, but have never cleared the water. Peale, who was called the soldier-artist, was once visiting Washington at Mount Vernon.
I put up my hand to lift them off the nail without tearing them, and was amazed to discover that neither nail nor newspapers had any tangible existence. They had been drawn on the plaster, by that confounded soldier-artist, with a lead-pencil I felt worse deceived and more chagrined than the Greek pony that neighed at the painted horse of Apelles! But I need not have felt so humiliated.
With the blindness of preoccupation, Natalie sees not how the tendrils of "first love" have filled the girl's heart. The young soldier-artist rules that gentle bosom. Love finds its ways of commune. Marriage seems impossible for years. Isabel must mount her "golden throne" before suitors can come to woo. A sculptor! The idea is absurd. Not a single trace is left of "Louise Moreau."
It is "Monsieur Raoul," "Mademoiselle Isabel;" and all the while, their hearts beat in unison. Raoul, soldier-artist, Frenchman, and lover, dissembles when Villa Rocca is present. There is a strange constraint in the girl's dark eyes, as her idle hands cross themselves, in unconscious pose, when they are alone. "Lift your eyes a little, mademoiselle. Look steadily at me," is his gentle request.
There was an odd fascination about the soldier-artist which somehow influenced her in his favour when he was present, and of which she was not conscious until he was out of her sight.
In the Crimean camps, on the Parisian boulevards, in London parks, Guys strolled, crayon in hand, a true reporter of things seen and an ardent lover of horses, soldiers, pretty women, and the mob. Baudelaire called him the soldier-artist. He resembled in his restless wanderings Poe's man of the multitude, and at the end of a long life he still drew, as did Hokusai. Who was he?
"But," said the soldier-artist, adjusting his steel hat nervously, "I don't want to be killed! I hate the idea of it!" He was the normal man. The elderly officer was abnormal. The normal man, soldier without camouflage, had no use for death at all, unless it was in connection with the fellow on the opposite side of the way. He hated the notion of it applied to himself.
In the days of the convalescence of Raoul Dauvray, the two friends of the soldier-artist, now waiting the orders for the great attack, commune as to his rights. It would not be well to disturb him with false hopes. The gentle old priest tells Raoul the whole story of Lagunitas. "Mon pere," says the sculptor, "I think there is something wrong with the affairs of that estate.
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