soul that would then have shone from it.  As it was, all who looked at him regretted that the man belonged no more to the world at large, and said to one another:  “He must have been very handsome in his youth.”  A vulgar error!  Never was Balthazar Claes’s appearance more poetic than at this moment.  Lavater, had he seen him, would fain have studied that head so full of patience, of Flemish loyalty, and pure morality,—­where all was broad and noble, and passion seemed calm because it was strong.

The conduct of this man could not be otherwise than pure; his word was sacred, his friendships seemed undeviating, his self-devotedness complete:  and yet the will to employ those qualities in patriotic service, for the world or for the family, was directed, fatally, elsewhere.  This citizen, bound to guard the welfare of a household, to manage property, to guide his children towards a noble future, was living outside the line of his duty and his affections, in communion with an attendant spirit.  A priest might have thought him inspired by the word of God; an artist would have hailed him as a great master; an enthusiast would have taken him for a seer of the Swedenborgian faith.

At the present moment, the dilapidated, uncouth, and ruined clothes that he wore contrasted strangely with the graceful elegance of the woman who was sadly admiring him.  Deformed persons who have intellect, or nobility of soul, show an exquisite taste in their apparel.  Either they dress simply, convinced that their charm is wholly moral, or they make others forget their imperfections by an elegance of detail which diverts the eye and occupies the mind.  Not only did this woman possess a noble soul, but she loved Balthazar Claes with that instinct of the woman which gives a foretaste of the communion of angels.  Brought up in one of the most illustrious families of Belgium, she would have learned good taste had she not possessed it; and now, taught by the desire of constantly pleasing the man she loved, she knew how to clothe herself admirably, and without producing incongruity between her elegance and the defects of her conformation.  The bust, however, was defective in the shoulders only, one of which was noticeably much larger than the other.

She looked out of the window into the court-yard, then towards the garden, as if to make sure she was alone with Balthazar, and presently said, in a gentle voice and with a look full of a Flemish woman’s submissiveness,—­for between these two love had long since driven out the pride of her Spanish nature:—­

“Balthazar, are you so very busy? this is the thirty-third Sunday since you have been to mass or vespers.”

Claes did not answer; his wife bowed her head, clasped her hands, and waited:  she knew that his silence meant neither contempt nor indifference, only a tyrannous preoccupation.  Balthazar was one of those beings who preserve deep in their souls and after long years all their youthful delicacy of feeling; he would have thought it criminal to wound by so much as a word a woman weighed down by the sense of physical disfigurement.  No man knew better than he that a look, a word, suffices to blot out years of happiness, and is the more cruel because it contrasts with the unfailing tenderness of the past:  our nature leads us to suffer more from one discord in our happiness than pleasure coming in the midst of trouble can bring us joy.