surly ones condemned Amedee’s attempt, qualifying it as an honorable effort.  There were some slashes; one “long-haired” fellow from the Cafe de Seville failed in his criticism—­the very one who once wrote a description of the violation of a tomb—­to crush the author of L’Atelier in an ultra-classical article, wherein he protested against realism and called to witness all the silent, sculptured authors in the hall.

It was a singular thing, but Amedee was easily consoled over his failure.  He did not have the necessary qualities to succeed in the theatrical line?  Very well, he would give it up, that was all!  It was not such a great misfortune, upon the whole, to abandon the most difficult art of all, but not the first; which did not allow a poet to act his own free liking.  Amedee began to compose verses for himself—­for his own gratification; to become intoxicated with his own rhymes and fancies; to gather with a sad pleasure the melancholy flowers that his trouble had caused to blossom in his heart.

Meanwhile summer arrived, and Maurice returned to Paris with his wife and a little boy, born at Nice, and Amedee must go to see them, although he knew in advance that the visit would make him unhappy.

The amateur painter was handsomer than ever.  He was alone in his studio, wearing his same red jacket.  He had decorated and even crammed the room full of luxurious and amusing knickknacks.  The careless young man received his friend as if nothing had happened between them, and after their greetings and inquiries as to old friends, and the events that had happened since their last meeting, they lighted their cigarettes.

“Well, what have you done?” asked the poet.  “You had great projects of work.  Have you carried out your plans?  Have you many sketches to show me?”

“Upon my word, no!  Almost nothing.  Do you know, when I was there I abandoned myself to living; I played the lizard in the sun.  Happiness is very engrossing, and I have been foolishly happy.”

Then placing his hand upon his friend’s, who sat near him, he added: 

“But I owe that happiness to you, my good Amedee.”

Maurice said this carelessly, in order to satisfy his conscience.  Did he remember, did he even suspect how unhappy the poet had been, and was now, on account of this happiness?  A bell rang.

“Ah!” exclaimed the master of the house, joyfully.

“It is Maria returning with the baby from a walk in the gardens.  This little citizen will be six weeks old to-morrow, and you must see what a handsome little fellow he is already.”

Amedee felt stifled with emotion.  He was about to see her again!  To see her as a wife and a mother was quite different, of course.

She appeared, raising the portiere with one hand, while behind her appeared the white bonnet and rustic face of the nurse.  No! she was not changed, but maternity, love, and a rich and easy life had expanded her beauty.  She was dressed in a fresh and charming toilette.  She blushed when she first recognized Amedee; and he felt with sadness that his presence could only awaken unpleasant recollections in the young woman’s mind.