ly, was not
necessary."

Eugene shrugged his shoulders. The shrug said plainly, "Why, indeed?
Ask me an easier one."

For some moments there was silence between the two. Absinthe is not a
liquor to be drunk hastily, or even to be talked over too much in the
drinking. Henri did not seem to expect any other reply than the
expressive shrug, and each man consumed his beverage dreamily, while
the absinthe, in return for this thoughtful consideration, spread over
them its benign influence, gradually lifting from their minds all care
and worry, dispersing the mental clouds that hover over all men at
times, thinning the fog until it disappeared, rather than rolling the
vapour away, as the warm sun dissipates into invisibility the opaque
morning mists, leaving nothing but clear air, all round, and a blue sky
overhead.

"A man must live," said Caspilier at last; "and the profession of
decadent poet is not a lucrative one. Of course there is undying fame
in the future, but then we must have our absinthe in the present. Why
did I marry her, you ask? I was the victim of my environment. I must
write poetry; to write poetry, I must live; to live, I must have money;
to get money, I was forced to marry. Valdoreme is one of the best
pastry-cooks in Paris; is it my fault, then, that the Parisians have a
greater love for pastry than for poetry? Am I to blame that her wares
are more sought for at her shop than are mine at the booksellers'? I
would willingly have shared the income of the shop with her without the
folly of marriage, but Valdoreme has strange, barbaric notions which
were not overturnable by civilised reason. Still my action was not
wholly mercenary, nor indeed mainly so. There was a rhythm about her
name that pleased me. Then she is a Russian, and my country and hers
were at that moment in each other's arms, so I proposed to Valdoreme
that we follow the national example. But, alas! Henri, my friend, I
find that even ten years' residence in Paris will not eliminate the
savage from the nature of a Russian. In spite of the name that sounds
like the soft flow of a rich mellow wine, my wife is little better than
a barbarian. When I told her about Tenise, she acted like a mad woman--
drove me into the streets."

"But why did you tell her about Tenise?"

"_Pourquoi?_ How I hate that word! Why! Why!! Why!!! It dogs one's
actions like a bloodhound, eternally yelping for a reason. It seems to
me that a11 my life I have had to acc