“I quite agree.  What next?”

“What next?” He had risen, and was speaking with unusual vehemence.  “I once knew some one like you, whose first passion, rash, but deep as yours would be, broke his heart forever.  The heart, my friend, is liable to break, and can not be mended like china.”

Lampron’s mother interrupted him afresh, reproachfully.

“He came to wish you a happy birthday, my child.”

“One day, mother, is as good as another to listen to good advice.  Besides, I am only talking of one of my friends.  ’Tis but a short story, Fabien, and instructive.  I will give it you in very few words.  My friend was very young and enthusiastic.  He was on his way through the galleries of Italy, brush in hand, his heart full of the ceaseless song of youth in holiday.  The world never had played him false, nor balked him.  He made the future bend to the fancy of his dreams.  He seldom descended among common men from those loftier realms where the contemplation of endless masterpieces kept his spirit as on wings.  He admired, copied, filled his soul with the glowing beauty of Italian landscape and Italian art.  But one day, without reflection, without knowledge, without foresight, he was rash enough to fall in love with a girl of noble birth whose portrait he was painting; to speak to her and to win her love.  He thought then, in the silly innocence of his youth, that art abridges all distance and that love effaces it.  Crueller nonsense never was uttered, my poor Fabien.  He soon found this; he tried to struggle against the parent’s denial, against himself, against her, powerless in all alike, beaten at every point....  The end was—­Do you care to learn the end?  The girl was carried off, struck down by a brief illness, soon dead; the man, hurled out of heaven, bruised, a fugitive also, is still so weak in presence of his sorrow that even after these long years he can not think of it without weeping.”

Lampron actually was weeping, he who was so seldom moved.  Down his brown beard, tinged already with gray, a tear was trickling.  I noticed that Madame Lampron was stooping lower and lower over her needles.  He went on: 

“I have kept the portrait, the one you saw, Fabien.  They would like to have it over yonder.  They are old folk by now.  Every year they ask me for this relic of our common sorrow; every year they send me, about this time a basket of white flowers, chiefly lilacs, the dead girl’s flower, and their meaning is, ’Give up to us what is left of her, the masterpiece built up of your youth and hers.’  But I am selfish, Fabien.  I, like them, am jealous of all the sorrows this portrait recalls to me, and I deny them.  Come, mother, where are the flowers?  I have promised Fabien to show them to him.”

But his old mother could not answer.  Having no doubt bewept this sorrow too often to find fresh tears, her eyes followed her son with restless compassion.  He, beside the window, was hunting among the chairs and lounges crowded in this corner of the little sitting-room.