The Portrait of Mrs Charbuque Read Online Free PDF

you think I would offer you such a great amount of money for an ordinary portrait? Money I
    have, sir, but I am not a fool with it."
    "Forgive me," I said. "I don't understand."
    "Surely you do, Mr. Piambo. You must paint me with-out seeing me," she said.
    I laughed again, this time louder, in ratio to my grow-ing confusion. "I would think Mr. Watkin, who navigates the complexity of the city without benefit of sight, would be better suited to the task."
    "Watkin has his abilities, but painting is not one of them," she said.
    "Can you give me an idea of how this might work?" I asked.
    "Certainly. You will visit me here, sit before my screen, and ask me questions about myself.
    From the information I give, my voice and my stories, you will con-struct in your mind an image of me, which you will then render on canvas."
    "Excuse me, but I'm afraid that sounds impossible," I said.
    "Impossible, Mr. Piambo, is a word I have found carries little meaning. I agree that it is difficult, but I have my reasons for making such an odd request. All you need do is paint a fine portrait, which I
    know you are more than capable of. If, though, you should succeed in capturing my exact likeness, I will double what I have already offered. There is no possibility of failure for you, and there is a chance that you will walk away from this commission extremely wealthy."
    As she spoke, I tried to form a picture of her from the sonorous voice that seemed now to issue from every point in the room. In my mind's eye I caught a glimpse of chest-nut locks gathered up in a bun, but as soon as she began to speak again, that knot of hair came loose and tumbled down into a whirl of perplexity.
    "The only stipulation is that you cannot see me. If for some reason you should not be able to contain your curiosity and try to gaze upon me, the commission will be immediately canceled and you will be severely punished for your impertinence. Is that understood?"
    "Punished?" I said.

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    "I will not be had by your eyes. Should you force the situation, I warn you that Watkin, who has certain—how shall I say it—
    skills, will deal with you. Don't be so fool-ish as to underestimate his proficiency," she said.
    "Please, Mrs. Charbuque, I'm a gentleman. I can assure you that will not be necessary."
    "For my part," she said, "I will answer no questions as to my physical appearance, but other than these, you may ask me anything, and I will be completely forthcoming in my answers."
    "And the why of it?" I asked.
    "That is not for you to concern yourself with," she said.
    A brief image of sparkling green eyes flashed in my mind.
    "Do we have a deal?" she asked. "Don't feel badly if you decide to decline my offer. I have chosen another if you should disappoint me. There is a very fine painter, a Mr. Oskar Hulet, who I believe might do a wonderful job. Do you know of him?"
    "You must be aware that I do," I said. She no doubt knew as well as I did that Hulet was still in Europe.
    "Perhaps," she whispered, and I thought I heard her laugh.
    Those eyes turned blue and then hazel as I tried to decide. I envisioned myself engaged in a struggle to the death with Watkin, followed by an image of Hulet at work on a masterpiece, which melted into a recollection of M.Sabott brought low in his twilight years, raving like a madman in the street.
    "Yes, a deal," I said hastily, feeling equal parts of regret and exhilaration rush through me.
    "Very well. I will be at your disposal between the hours of two and three, every day of the week save Saturday and Sunday, for the next month. You need only come as much as is helpful to you.
    Perhaps you know enough already to attempt the portrait. At the end of that time, during the second week of November, you must present me with a painting."
    "Agreed," I said. "I will return tomorrow and we will begin."
    "As you wish," she said.
    Before getting up, I remembered the portrait of Monlash and asked, "Mrs. Charbuque, the painting in the small room