“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 glanced at the writer, who had drawn near.  And when he saw him examining the book and looking quite moved by the compliment paid to it, he exclaimed:  “My dear fellow, the binder brought it here this morning, and I was awaiting an opportunity to surprise you with it.  It is the pearl of my collection!  What do you think of the idea—­that lily which symbolizes triumphant purity, and those thistles, the plants which spring up among ruins, and which symbolize the sterility of the world, at last deserted, again won over to the only perfect felicity?  All your work lies in those symbols, you know.”

“Yes, yes.  But you spoil me; you will end by making me proud.”

Mathieu had read Santerre’s novel, having borrowed a copy of it from Mme. Beauchene, in order that his wife might see it, since it was a book that everybody was talking of.  And the perusal of it had exasperated him.  Forsaking the customary bachelor’s flat where in previous works he had been so fond of laying scenes of debauchery, Santerre had this time tried to rise to the level of pure art and lyrical symbolism.  The story he told was one of a certain Countess Anne-Marie, who, to escape a rough-mannered husband of extreme masculinity, had sought a refuge in Brittany in the company of a young painter endowed with divine inspiration, one Norbert, who had undertaken to decorate a convent chapel with paintings that depicted his various visions.  And for thirty years he went on painting there, ever in colloquy with the angels, and ever having Anne-Marie beside him.  And during those thirty years of love the Countess’s beauty remained unimpaired; she was as young and as fresh at the finish as at the outset; whereas certain secondary personages, introduced into the story, wives and mothers of a neighboring little town, sank into physical and mental decay, and monstrous decrepitude.  Mathieu considered the author’s theory that all physical beauty and moral nobility belonged to virgins only, to be thoroughly imbecile, and he could not restrain himself from hinting his disapproval of it.