ne July day. At either extremity of this crescent its two
"gates," the smaller to the right, the larger one at the left, stretched
forth--one a dwarf and the other a colossal limb--into the water, and
the bell tower, almost as tall as the cliff, wide below, narrowing at
the top, raised its pointed summit to the sky.

On the sands beside the water a crowd was seated watching the bathers.
On the terrace of, the Casino another crowd, seated or walking,
displayed beneath the brilliant sky a perfect flower patch of bright
costumes, with red and blue parasols embroidered with large flowers in
silk.

On the walk at the end of the terrace, other persons, the restful, quiet
ones, were walking slowly, far from the dressy throng.

A young man, well known and celebrated as a painter, Jean Sumner, was
walking with a dejected air beside a wheeled chair in which sat a young
woman, his wife. A manservant was gently pushing the chair, and the
crippled woman was gazing sadly at the brightness of the sky, the
gladness of the day, and the happiness of others.

They did not speak. They did not look at each other.

"Let us stop a while," said the young woman.

They stopped, and the painter sat down on a camp stool that the servant
handed him.

Those who were passing behind the silent and motionless couple looked at
them compassionately. A whole legend of devotion was attached to them.
He had married her in spite of her infirmity, touched by her affection
for him, it was said.

Not far from there, two young men were chatting, seated on a bench and
looking out into the horizon.

"No, it is not true; I tell you that I am well acquainted with Jean
Sumner."

"But then, why did he marry her? For she was a cripple when she married,
was she not?"

"Just so. He married her--he married her--just as every one marries,
parbleu! because he was an idiot!"

"But why?"

"But why--but why, my friend? There is no why. People do stupid things
just because they do stupid things. And, besides, you know very well
that painters make a specialty of foolish marriages. They almost always
marry models, former sweethearts, in fact, women of doubtful reputation,
frequently. Why do they do this? Who can say? One would suppose that
constant association with the general run of models would disgust them
forever with that class of women. Not at all. After having posed
them they marry them. Read that little book, so true, so cruel and so
beautiful, by Alphon