ons of the soulful delineator. For
himself, he always preferred the old masters, and in his bargains had
acquired the work of many a dead artist; but the fact that Julio had
thought as his partner did was now enough for the devotee of the antique
and made him admit humbly all the Spaniard's superior theories.

The artist's laborious zeal was always of short duration. After a few
moments, he always found that he preferred to rest on the divan and
converse with his guest.

The first subject, of course, was the absentee. They would repeat
fragments of the letters they had received, and would speak of the past
with the most discreet allusions. The painter described Julio's life
before the war as an existence dedicated completely to art. The father
ignored the inexactitude of such words, and gratefully accepted the lie
as a proof of friendship. Argensola was such a clever comrade, never,
in his loftiest verbal flights, making the slightest reference to Madame
Laurier.

The old gentleman was often thinking about her nowadays, for he had seen
her in the street giving her arm to her husband, now recovered from his
wounds. The illustrious Lacour had informed him with great satisfaction
of their reconciliation. The engineer had lost but one eye. Now he was
again at the head of his factory requisitioned by the government for the
manufacture of shells. He was a Captain, and was wearing two decorations
of honor. The senator did not know exactly how this unexpected agreement
had come about. He had one day seen them coming home together, looking
affectionately at each other, in complete oblivion of the past.

"Who remembers things that happened before the war," said the politic
sage. "They and their friends have completely forgotten all about their
divorce. Nowadays we are all living a new existence. . . . I believe
that the two are happier than ever before."

Desnoyers had had a presentiment of this happiness when he saw them
together. And the man of inflexible morality who was, the year before,
anathematizing his son's behavior toward Laurier, considering it the
most unpardonable of his adventures, now felt a certain indignation in
seeing Marguerite devoted to her husband, and talking to him with such
affectionate interest. This matrimonial felicity seemed to him like the
basest ingratitude. A woman who had had such an influence over the life
of Julio! . . . Could she thus easily forget her love? . . .

The two had passed on a