ibed all the
juices of life and does not renew them any more, just like those lands
in Asia where the fecundating rivers, drop by drop, have disappeared
under the vitreous sand. Even those whom they believe they love are
loved in a proprietary way; they sacrifice them to their egotism, to
their buttressed pride, to their narrow and headstrong intelligence.
Pierre took a sorrowful review of his parents and himself. He was
silent. The panes of the apartment vibrated under the shock of a distant
cannonade. And Pierre, who was thinking of those who were dying, said
with bitterness:

"And that, too, is their work."

Yes, the hoarse barking of these cannon away off there, the universal
war, the grand catastrophe--the dryness of heart and the inhumanity of
that braggart and limited _bourgeoisie_ had a large part in the
responsibility for all that. And now (which was only just) the unchained
monster would never stop until it had devoured them.

And Luce said:

"That is true."

For without knowing that she did so she followed the thought of Pierre.
He started at the echo:

"Yes, it is true," said he, "what has come about is just. This world
was too old; it ought to, it must die."

And Luce, bowing her head, sorrowful and resigned, said once more:

"Yes."

Solemn faces of children bent beneath Destiny, whose youthful brows
touched by the wing of care bore within them such distressful
ponderings!...

Darkness increased in the room. It was not very warm in there. Her hands
being icy, Luce stopped her work, which Pierre was not allowed to see.
They went to the window and contemplated the evening shadows across
mournful fields and wooded hills. The violet forests formed a half
circle against a greenish sky powdered with dust of a pale gold. A bit
of the soul of Puvis de Chavannes floated there. A simple phrase of Luce
made it evident that she understood how to read that subtle harmony. He
was almost astonished. She was not miffed at that, and said that one
might easily feel a thing that one would be incapable of expressing.
Though she painted very badly, it was not altogether her fault. Through
an economical turn, perhaps ill-advised, she had not finished her course
at the Arts Decoratifs. Besides, poverty alone had made her turn to
painting. What use in painting without a purpose? And did not Pierre
think that almost all those who produce art do it without actual
necessity, through vanity, in order to occupy their time