the back of the house, I will try to join you, when these pigs have
finished feeding." She indicates with contempt the noisily eating crowd.

They sit long at that table, for the man has much to tell of his young
brother Claude; of the ruin she has made of his life; of the little
green devils that lurk in a glass of absinthe, and clutch their victim,
and drag him down deeper, ever deeper, into the great, green abyss.

But she only laughs, this Jehane of the wanton eyes.

"But what do you want from me? I have no need of this Claude. He
wearies me--now!"

Arnaud springs to his feet, catching her roughly by the wrist. He loves
his young brother much. His voice is raised, attracting the notice of
two or three groups who take coffee at the iron tables.

"You had need of him once. You never left him in peace till you had
sucked him of all that makes life good. If I could----"

Jean Potin appears in the doorway.

"Jehane, what are you doing out here? You know I do not permit it that
you speak with the visitors. Pardon her, monsieur, she is but a child."

"A child?" The artist's brow is black as thunder. "She has wrecked a
life, this child you speak of!"

He strides past the amazed innkeeper, up the narrow flight of stairs,
and down the passage to his room.

Sitting on the edge of the huge curtained four-poster bed, he ponders on
the events of the evening.

But his thoughts are not all of Claude. That girl--that girl with her
pale face and her pale hair, and eyes the grey of a storm cloud before
it breaks, she haunts him! Her soft murmuring voice has stolen into his
brain; he hears it in the drip, drip of the rain on the sill outside.

Soon heavy feet are heard trooping up the stairs; doors are heard to
bang; cheery voices wish each other good-night. Then gradually the
sounds die away. They keep early hours at the "Loup Noir"; it is not yet
ten o'clock.

Still Arnaud remains sitting on the edge of the bed; the dark plush
canopy overhead repels him, he does not feel inclined for sleep.
Jehane! what a picture she would make! He _must_ paint her!

Obsessed by this idea, he unpacks a roll of canvas, spreads it on the
tripod easel, and prepares crayons and charcoal; he will start the
picture as soon as it is day. He will paint her as Circe, mocking at her
grovelling herd of swine!

He creeps into bed and falls asleep.

* * * * *

Softly the rain patters against the window-pane.