A clear, bright radiance seemed to give him a
glimpse of the heaven of Michael Angelo or of Raphael of Urbino: a
venerable white-bearded man, a beautiful woman seated in an aureole
above the clouds and winged cherub heads. Now he had grasped and
received the meaning of those imaginative, almost human creations;
they seemed to explain what had happened to him, to leave him yet one
hope.
But when the greenroom of the Italiens returned upon his sight he
beheld, not the Virgin, but a very handsome young person. The
execrable Euphrasia, in all the splendor of her toilette, with its
orient pearls, had come thither, impatient for her ardent, elderly
admirer. She was insolently exhibiting herself with her defiant face
and glittering eyes to an envious crowd of stockbrokers, a visible
testimony to the inexhaustible wealth that the old dealer permitted
her to squander.
Raphael recollected the mocking wish with which he had accepted the
old man's luckless gift, and tasted all the sweets of revenge when he
beheld the spectacle of sublime wisdom fallen to such a depth as this,
wisdom for which such humiliation had seemed a thing impossible. The
centenarian greeted Euphrasia with a ghastly smile, receiving her
honeyed words in reply.
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