up his mind to have nothing further to do with
her. It was the novelist who, in literary and artistic matters, helped
on the insanity which was gradually springing up in the Seguins' home.

However, Seguin himself now made his appearance. He was of the same age
as Santerre, but was taller and slimmer, with fair hair, an aquiline
nose, gray eyes, and thin lips shaded by a slight moustache. He also was
in evening dress.

"Ah! well, my dear fellow," said he with the slight lisp which he
affected, "Valentine is determined to put on a new gown. So we must be
patient; we shall have an hour to wait."

Then, on catching sight of Mathieu, he began to apologize, evincing much
politeness and striving to accentuate his air of frigid distinction.
When the young man, whom he called his amiable tenant, had acquainted
him with the motive of his visit--the leak in the zinc roof of the
little pavilion at Janville--he at once consented to let the local
plumber do any necessary soldering. But when, after fresh explanations,
he understood that the roofing was so worn and damaged that it required
to be changed entirely, he suddenly departed from his lofty affability
and began to protest, declaring that he could not possibly expend in
such repairs a sum which would exceed the whole annual rental of six
hundred francs.

"Some soldering," he repeated; "some soldering; it's understood. I will
write to the plumber." And wishing to change the subject he added: "Oh!
wait a moment, Monsieur Froment. You are a man of taste, I know, and I
want to show you a marvel."

He really had some esteem for Mathieu, for he knew that the young fellow
possessed a quick appreciative mind. Mathieu began to smile, outwardly
yielding to this attempt to create a diversion, but determined at heart
that he would not leave the place until he had obtained the promise of
a new roof. He took hold of a book, clad in a marvellous binding, which
Seguin had fetched from a bookcase and tendered with religious care. On
the cover of soft snow-white leather was incrusted a long silver lily,
intersected by a tuft of big violet thistles. The title of the work,
"Beauty Imperishable," was engraved up above, as in a corner of the sky.

"Ah! what a delightful conception, what delightful coloring!" declared
Mathieu, who was really charmed. "Some bindings nowadays are perfect
gems." Then he noticed the title: "Why, it's Monsieur Santerre's last
novel!" said he.

Seguin smiled and gl