ion for the future, comfort, self
content, the tranquillity of regular work. Do you know what he did? He
said: "He would never forgive me." After which he tore the minister's
letter into a thousand pieces, and rushed out, banging the doors. Oh!
these artists, poor unsettled brains taking life all the wrong way! What
could be done with such a man? I should have liked to talk to him, to
reason with him. In vain. Those were indeed right, who had said to me:
"He is a madman." Of what use moreover to talk to him? We do not
speak the same language. He would not understand me, any more than I
understand him. And now, here we must sit and look at each other. I see
hatred in his glance, and yet I have true affection for him. It is very
painful.

* * * * *

A MISUNDERSTANDING -- THE HUSBAND'S VERSION.

I had thought of everything, taken all my precautions. I would not have
a Parisian, because Parisian women alarm me. I would not have a rich
wife because she might be too exacting and extravagant. I also
dreaded family ties, that terrible network of homely affections, which
monopolizes, imprisons, dwarfs and stifles. My wife was the realization
of my fondest dreams. I said to myself: "She will owe me everything."

[Illustration: p091-102]

What pleasure to educate this simple mind to the contemplation of
beauty, to initiate this pure soul to my enthusiasms and hopes, to give
life, in short, to this statue! The fact is she had the air of a
statue, with her great serious calm eyes, her regular Greek profile, her
features, which although rather too marked and severe, were softened by
the rose-tinted bloom of youth and the shadow of the waving hair. Added
to all this was a faint provincial accent that was my especial joy, an
accent to which with closed eyes, I listened as a recollection of happy
childhood, the echo of a tranquil life in some far away, utterly unknown
nook. And to think that now, this accent has become unbearable to me!
But in those days, I had faith. I loved, I was happy, and disposed to
be still more so. Full of ardour for my work, I had as soon as I was
married begun a new poem, and in the evening I read to her the verses
of the day. I wished to make her enter completely into my existence. The
first time or two, she said to me: "Very pretty," and I was grateful
to her for this childish approbation, hoping that in time she would
comprehend better what was the very breath of my life.

Poor creatur