r I've had plenty of the needful and known plenty of the upper ten and
all. I dragged him out of the gutter and now this is what I get for it.
He's a bright beauty, that friend of yours. The lazy scoundrel. Why, he
had to be dressed like a child, the drunken contemptible brute. You
don't know him yet, Monsieur Sariette. He's a forger. He turns out
Giottos, Giottos, I tell you, and Fra Angelicos and Grecos, as hard as
he can and sells them to art-dealers--yes, and Fragonards too, and
Baudouins. He's a debauchee, and doesn't believe in God! That's the
worst of the lot, Monsieur Sariette, for without the fear of God...."

Long did Zephyrine continue to pour forth vituperations. When at last
her breath failed her, Monsieur Sariette availed himself of the
opportunity to exhort her to be calm and bring herself to look on the
bright side of things. Guinardon would come back. A man doesn't forget
anyone he's lived and got on well with for fifty years----

These two observations only goaded her to a fresh outburst, and
Zephyrine swore she would never forget the slight that had been put on
her; she swore she would never have the monster back with her any more.
And if he came to ask her to forgive him on his knees, she would let him
grovel at her feet.

"Don't you understand, Monsieur Sariette, that I despise and hate him,
that he makes me sick?"

Sixty times she voiced these lofty sentiments; sixty times she vowed she
would never have Guinardon back with her again, that she couldn't bear
the sight of him, even in a picture.

Monsieur Sariette made no attempt to oppose a resolve which, after
protestations such as these, he regarded as unshakable. He did not blame
Zephyrine in the least. He even supported her. Unfolding to the deserted
one a purer future, he told her of the frailty of human sentiment,
exhorted her to display a spirit of renunciation and enjoined her to
show a pious resignation to the will of God.

"Seeing, in truth, that your friend is so little worthy of affection
..."

He was not suffered to continue. Zephyrine flew at him, and shaking him
furiously by the collar of his frock-coat, she yelled, half choking with
rage: "So little worthy of affection! Michel! Ah! my boy, you find
another more kind, more gay, more witty, you find another like him,
always young, yes, always. Not worthy of affection! Anyone can see you
don't know anything about love, you old duffer."

Taking advantage of the fact that Pere Sar