bargains.  Why buy anything more? . . .  Of what use was such useless stuff?  Whenever he thought of the hard life of millions of men in the open field, he felt a longing to lead an ascetic life.  He was beginning to hate the ostentatious splendors of his home on the avenue Victor Hugo.  He now recalled without a regretful pang, the destruction of the castle.  No, he was far better off there . . . and “there” was always the studio of Julio.

Argensola began to form the habit of working in the presence of Don Marcelo.  He knew that the resolute soul abominated inactive people, so, under the contagious influence of dominant will-power, he began several new pieces.  Desnoyers would follow with interest the motions of his brush and accept all the explanations 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? . . .