rows of light where the lamps were
like illumined oranges. The vehicles twinkled by like fire-flies in the
mist. Before him was the Palais de l'Industrie and back of it stretched
the Champ de Mars and Napoleon's tomb. The freedom of the night and the
hour was sweet to him; and he dreamed as he limped slowly down the
Avenue under the leafless trees. Probably wisdom would tell him that, if
he married now, it would be the end of his career. Love was an
inspiration, a sharp impelling power to art, but marriage, a home,
another household, another hearth and family, beautiful as the picture
was, seemed to him, even bright and keen as was his passion, to be
captivity. And the memory of Albany came back to him, the cold winter
months, the days on the engine, the blizzards against the tenement
panes, household cares, small and petty, the buying of coal and food,
and the constant duties which no man can shrink from and be a man, and
which fret the free spirit of the creator. Moreover, the anguish of
those days returned, biting his very entrails at the remembrance of his
griefs, his remorse, his regrets. Molly by the study light, patient and
wifely, rose before his eyes. There was his wife, and she seemed holy
and stainless, set apart for that position and very perfect. He saw her
lying pale and cold, beautiful as marble, with the little swathed form
on her bosom, which had given and never nourished. He saw them both--his
wife and child. Can a man begin over again? Can he create anew,
perfectly anew, the same vision? He saw her go through the open door,
holding it wide for him. So she should hold it at the last. He could
give her this. He had defrauded her of so much. He could give to her to
eternity a certain faithfulness.

He was exalted. He walked freely, with his head uplifted. It was a misty
evening and the mists blew about him as he limped along in his student's
cape, his spirit communing with his ideals and with his dead. Before,
his visions took form and floated down the Avenue. Now they seemed
unearthly, without any stain of human desire, without any worldly
tarnish. He must be free. The latitude of his life must be unbounded by
any human law, otherwise he would never attain. The flying forms were
sexless and his eyes pursued them like a worshipper. They were angelic.
For the moment he had emancipated himself from passion.

He reached the Place de la Concorde. It was ten o'clock. He could not go
home to be questioned by