s. And he too had been young! He
too had embittered the best years of his life in these combats, like
amoebae who struggle together in a drop of water, fancying they may
conquer a huge world! What interest had eternal beauty in these
regimental ambitions, in this ladder-climbing fever of those who strove
to be her interpreters?

The master went home. The walk had made him forget his anxiety of the
night before. His body, weakened by his easy life, seemed to acknowledge
this exercise with a violent reaction. His legs itched slightly, the
blood throbbed in his temples, it seemed to spread through his body in a
wave of warmth. He exulted in his power and tasted the joy of every
organism that is performing its functions in harmonious regularity.

As he crossed the garden, he was humming a song. He smiled to the
concierge's wife who had opened the gate for him and to the ugly
watchdog who came up with a caressing whine to lick his trousers. He
opened the glass door, passing from the noise outside into deep,
convent-like silence. His feet sank in the soft rugs; the only sounds
were the mysterious trembling of the pictures which covered the walls up
to the ceiling, the creaking of invisible wood-borers in the picture
frames, the swing of the hangings in a breath of air. Everything that
the master had painted; studies or whims, finished or unfinished, was
placed on the ground floor, together with pictures and drawings by some
famous companions or favorite pupils. Milita had amused herself for a
long time before she was married, in this decoration which reached even
to poorly lighted hallways.

As he left his hat and stick on the hat-rack, the eyes of the master
fell on a nearby water-color, as if this picture attracted his attention
among the others which surrounded it. He was surprised that he should
now notice it of a sudden, after passing by it so many times without
seeing it. It was not bad; but it was timid; it showed lack of
experience. Whose could it be? Perhaps Soldevilla's. But as he drew near
to see it better, he smiled. It was his own! How differently he painted
then! He tried to remember when and where he had painted it. To help his
memory, he looked closely at that charming woman's head, with its dreamy
eyes, wondering who the model could have been.

Suddenly a cloud came over his face. The artist seemed confused,
ashamed. How stupid! It was his wife, the Josephina of the early days,
when he used to gaze at her