children, to chatter quietly every
evening over the details of existence. We must have the azaleas out
to-morrow and thoroughly cleansed, they are devoured by insects; the tame
rook has flown away; mother lost her prayer-book coming from church, she
thinks it was stolen. A good, honest, well-to-do peasant, who knows nothing
of politics, must be very nearly happy;--and to think there are people who
would educate, who would draw these people out of the calm satisfaction of
their instincts, and give them passions! The philanthropist is the Nero of
modern times.

CHAPTER VIII

EXTRACT FROM A LETTER

Why did you not send a letter? We have all been writing to you for the last
six months, but no answer--none. Had you written one word I would have
saved all. The poor concierge was in despair; she said the
_proprietaire_ would wait if you had only said when you were coming
back, or if you only had let us know what you wished to be done. Three
quarters rent was due, and no news could be obtained of you, so an auction
had to be called. It nearly broke my heart to see those horrid men tramping
over the delicate carpets, their coarse faces set against the sweet colour
of that beautiful English cretonne.... And all the while the pastel by
Manet, the great hat set like an aureole about the face--'the eyes deep set
in crimson shadow,' 'the fan widespread across the bosom' (you see I am
quoting your own words), looking down, the mistress of that little paradise
of tapestry. She seemed to resent the intrusion. I looked once or twice
half expecting those eyes 'deep set in crimson shadow' to fill with tears.
But nothing altered her great dignity; she seemed to see all, but as a
Buddha she remained impenetrable....

"I was there the night before the sale. I looked through the hooks, taking
notes of those I intended to buy--those which we used to read together when
the snow lay high about the legs of the poor faun in _terre cuite_,
that laughed amid the frosty _boulingrins_. I found a large packet of
letters which I instantly destroyed. You should not be so careless; I
wonder how it is that men are always careless about their letters.

"The sale was announced for one o'clock. I wore a thick veil, for I did not
wish to be recognised; the concierge of course knew me, but she can be
depended upon. The poor old woman was in tears, so sorry was she to see all
your pretty things sold up. You left owing her a hundred francs, but I have