“Yes,” he went on, “from that has come her tragedy.  But she should have known before I married her.  Nothing was concealed.  Bon Dieu! she should have known!  Why cannot a woman see things as they are?  My mistress, mademoiselle, is not a thing of flesh.  It is my art.  It has always been first with me, and always will.  She has never accepted that, she is incapable of accepting it.  I am sorry for her.  But what would you?  I was a fool to marry her.  Chere mademoiselle, no troubles are anything beside the trouble which goes on day and night, meal after meal, year, after year, between two people who should never have married, because one loves too much and requires all, and the other loves not at all—­no, not at all, now, it is long dead—­and can give but little.”

“Can’t you separate?” asked Noel, wondering.

“It is hard to separate from one who craves for you as she craves her drugs—­yes, she takes drugs now, mademoiselle.  It is impossible for one who has any compassion in his soul.  Besides, what would she do?  We live from hand to mouth, in a strange land.  She has no friends here, not one.  How could I leave her while this war lasts?  As well could two persons on a desert island separate.  She is killing herself, too, with these drugs, and I cannot stop her.”

“Poor madame!” murmured Noel.  “Poor monsieur!”

The painter drew his hand across his eyes.

“I cannot change my nature,” he said in a stifled voice, “nor she hers.  So we go on.  But life will stop suddenly some day for one of us.  After all, it is much worse for her than for me.  Enter, mademoiselle.  Do not tell her I am going to paint you; she likes you, because you refused to let me.”

Noel went up the stairs, shuddering; she had been there once before, and remembered that sickly scent of drugs.  On the third floor they entered a small sitting-room whose walls were covered with paintings and drawings; from one corner a triangular stack of canvases jutted out.  There was little furniture save an old red sofa, and on this was seated a stoutish man in the garb of a Belgian soldier, with his elbows on his knees and his bearded cheeks resting on his doubled fists.  Beside him on the sofa, nursing a doll, was a little girl, who looked up at Noel.  She had a most strange, attractive, pale little face, with pointed chin and large eyes, which never moved from this apparition in grey rabbits’ skins.

“Ah, Barra!  You here!” said the painter: 

“Mademoiselle, this is Monsieur Barra, a friend of ours from the front; and this is our landlady’s little girl.  A little refugee, too, aren’t you, Chica?”

The child gave him a sudden brilliant smile and resumed her grave scrutiny of the visitor.  The soldier, who had risen heavily, offered Noel one of his podgy hands, with a sad and heavy giggle.

“Sit down, mademoiselle,” said Lavendie, placing a chair for her:  “I will bring my wife in,” and he went out through some double doors.