uld like to know--"

"To know what? Have you any idea how long it took Goethe to write his
_Faust?_ And yet he lived in a thoroughly artistic atmosphere. He was
not condemned, as I am, to absolute solitude--mental solitude, I mean."

The poor woman listened in silence. From having so often listened
to similar complaints from D'Ar-genton, she had at last learned to
understand the reproaches conveyed in his words.

The poet's tone signified, "It is not you who can fill the blank around
me." In fact, he found her stupid, and was bored to death when alone
with her.

Without really being conscious of it, the thing that had fascinated him
in this woman was the frame in which she was set. He adored the
luxury by which she was surrounded. Now that he had her all to
himself--transformed and rechristened her, she had lost half her charm
in his eyes, and yet she was more lovely than ever. It was amusing to
witness the air of business with which he opened each morning the three
or four journals to which he subscribed. He broke the seals as if
he expected to find in their columns something of absorbing personal
interest; as, for example, a critique of his unwritten poem, or a resume
of the book that he meant some day to write. He read these journals
without missing one word, and always found something to arouse his
contempt or anger. Other people were so fortunate: their pieces were
played; and what pieces they were! Their books were printed; and such
books! As for himself, his ideas were stolen before he could write them
down.

"You know, Charlotte, yesterday a new play by Emile Angier was produced;
it was simply my _Pommes D'Atlante_."

"But that is outrageous! I will write myself to this Monsieur Angier,"
said poor Lottie, in a great state of indignation.

During these remarks, Jack said not one word; but as D'Argenton lashed
himself into frenzy, his old antipathy to the child revived, and the
heavy frowns with which he glanced toward the little fellow showed him
very clearly that his hatred was only smothered, and would burst forth
on the smallest provocation.

CHAPTER X.~~THE FIRST APPEARANCE OF BELISAIRE.

One afternoon, when D'Argenton and Charlotte had gone to drive, Jack,
who was alone with Mother Archambauld, saw that he must relinquish his
usual excursion to the forest on account of a storm that was coming up.

The July sky was heavy with black clouds, copper-colored on the edges;
distant rumblings of th