the four horsemen of the apocalypse-第69部分

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bright　uniform　of　the　new　gray…blue；　the　〃horizon　blue〃　just　adopted　by　the　French　army。　　The　chin　strap　of　his　kepi　was　gilt；　and　on　his　sleeve　there　was　a　little　strip　of　gold。　　His　smile；　his　outstretched　hands；　the　confidence　with　which　he　advanced　toward　her　made　her　recognize　him。　　Rene　an　officer！　Her　betrothed　a　sub…lieutenant！

〃Yes；　of　course！　I　could　do　nothing　else。　。　。　。　　I　had　heard　enough！〃

Without　his　father's　knowledge；　and　assisted　by　his　friends；　he　had　in　a　few　days；　wrought　this　wonderful　transformation。　　As　a　graduate　of　the　Ecole　Centrale；　he　held　the　rank　of　a　sub…lieutenant　of　the　Reserve　Artillery；　and　he　had　requested　to　be　sent　to　the　front。　Good…bye　to　the　auxiliary　service！　。　。　。　　Within　two　days；　he　was　going　to　start　for　the　war。

〃You　have　done　this！〃　exclaimed　Chichi。　　〃You　have　done　this！〃

Although　very　pale；　she　gazed　fondly　at　him　with　her　great　eyes　eyes　that　seemed　to　devour　him　with　admiration。

〃Come　here；　my　poor　boy。　。　。　。　　Come　here；　my　sweet　little　soldier！　。　。　。　　I　owe　you　something。〃

And　turning　her　back　on　the　maid；　she　asked　him　to　come　with　her　round　the　corner。　　It　was　just　the　same　there。　　The　cross　street　was　just　as　thronged　as　the　avenue。　　But　what　did　she　care　for　the　stare　of　the　curious！　　Rapturously　she　flung　her　arms　around　his　neck；　blind　and　insensible　to　everything　and　everybody　but　him。

〃There。　。　。　。　　There！〃　　And　she　planted　on　his　face　two　vehement；　sonorous；　aggressive　kisses。

Then；　trembling　and　shuddering；　she　suddenly　weakened；　and　fumbling　for　her　handkerchief；　broke　down　in　desperate　weeping。



CHAPTER　II

IN　THE　STUDIO


Upon　opening　the　studio　door　one　afternoon；　Argensola　stood　motionless　with　surprise；　as　though　rooted　to　the　ground。

An　old　gentleman　was　greeting　him　with　an　amiable　smile。

〃I　am　the　father　of　Julio。〃

And　he　walked　into　the　apartment　with　the　confidence　of　a　man　entirely　familiar　with　his　surroundings。

By　good　luck；　the　artist　was　alone；　and　was　not　obliged　to　tear　frantically　from　one　end　of　the　room　to　the　other；　hiding　the　traces　of　convivial　company；　but　he　was　a　little　slow　in　regaining　his　self…control。　　He　had　heard　so　much　about　Don　Marcelo　and　his　bad　temper；　that　he　was　very　uncomfortable　at　this　unexpected　appearance　in　the　studio。　。　。　。　　What　could　the　fearful　man　want？

His　tranquillity　was　restored　after　a　furtive；　appraising　glance。　His　friend's　father　had　aged　greatly　since　the　beginning　of　the　war。　He　no　longer　had　that　air　of　tenacity　and　ill…humor　that　had　made　him　unapproachable。　　His　eyes　were　sparkling　with　childish　glee；　his　hands　were　trembling　slightly；　and　his　back　was　bent。　　Argensola；　who　had　always　dodged　him　in　the　street　and　had　thrilled　with　fear　when　sneaking　up　the　stairway　in　the　avenue　home；　now　felt　a　sudden　confidence。　　The　transformed　old　man　was　beaming　on　him　like　a　comrade；　and　making　excuses　to　justify　his　visit。

He　had　wished　to　see　his　son's　home。　　Poor　old　man！　　He　was　drawn　thither　by　the　same　attraction　which　leads　the　lover　to　lessen　his　solitude　by　haunting　the　places　that　his　beloved　has　frequented。　The　letters　from　Julio　were　not　enough；　he　needed　to　see　his　old　abode；　to　be　on　familiar　terms　with　the　objects　which　had　surrounded　him；　to　breathe　the　same　air；　to　chat　with　the　young　man　who　was　his　boon　companion。

His　fatherly　glance　now　included　Argensola。　。　。　　。　　〃A　very　interesting　fellow；　that　Argensola！〃　　And　as　he　thought　this；　he　forgot　completely　that；　without　knowing　him；　he　had　been　accustomed　to　refer　to　him　as　〃shameless；〃　just　because　he　was　sharing　his　son's　prodigal　life。

Desnoyers'　glance　roamed　delightedly　around　the　studio。　　He　knew　well　these　tapestries　and　furnishings；　all　the　decorations　of　the　former　owner。　　He　easily　remembered　everything　that　he　had　ever　bought；　in　spite　of　the　fact　that　they　were　so　many。　　His　eyes　then　sought　the　personal　effects；　everything　that　would　call　the　absent　occupant　to　mind；　and　he　pored　over　the　miserably　executed　paintings；　the　unfinished　dabs　which　filled　all　the　corners。

Were　they　all　Julio's？　。　。　。　　Many　of　the　canvases　belonged　to　Argensola；　but　affected　by　the　old　man's　emotion；　the　artist　displayed　a　marvellous　generosity。　　Yes；　everything　was　Julio's　handiwork　。　。　。　and　the　father　went　from　canvas　to　canvas；　halting　admiringly　before　the　vaguest　daubs　as　though　he　could　almost　detect　signs　of　genius　in　their　nebulous　confusion。

〃You　think　he　has　talent；　really？〃　he　asked　in　a　tone　that　implored　a　favorable　reply。　　〃I　always　thought　him　very　intelligent　。　。　。　a　little　of　the　diable；　perhaps；　but　character　changes　with　years。　。　。　。　　Now　he　is　an　altogether　different　man。〃

And　he　almost　wept　at　hearing　the　Spaniard；　with　his　ready；　enthusiastic　speech；　lauding　the　departed　〃diable；〃　graphically　setting　forth　the　way　in　which　his　great　genius　was　going　to　take　the　world　when　his　turn　should　come。

The　painter　of　souls　finally　worked　himself　up　into　feeling　as　much　affected　as　the　father；　and　began　to　admire　this　old　Frenchman　with　a　certain　remorse；　not　wishing　to　remember　how　he　had　ranted　against　him　not　so　very　long　ago。　　What　injustice！　。　。　。

Don　Marcelo　clasped　his　hand　like　an　old　comrade。　　All　of　his　son's　friends　were　his　friends。　　He　knew　the　life　that　young　men　lived。　。　。　。　If　at　any　time；　he　should　be　in　any　difficulties；　if　he　needed　an　allowance　so　as　to　keep　on　with　his　paintingthere　he　was；　anxious　to　help　him！　　He　then　and　there　invited　him　to　dine　at　his　home　that　very　night；　and　if　he　would　care　to　come　every　evening；　so　much　the　better。　　He　would　eat　a　family　dinner；　entirely　informal。　War　had　brought　about　a　great　many　changes；　but　he　would　always　be　as　welcome　to　the　intimacy　of　the　hearth　as　though　he　were　in　his　father's　home。

Then　he　spoke　of　Spain；　in　order　to　place　himself　on　a　more　congenial　footing　with　the　artist。　　He　had　never　been　there　but　once；　and　then　only　for　a　short　time；　but　after　the　war；　he　was　going　to　know　it　better。　　His　father…in…law　was　a　Spaniard；　his　wife　had　Spanish　blood；　and　in　his　home　the　language　of　the　family　was　always　Castilian。　　Ah；　Spain；　the　country　with　a　noble　past　and　illustrious　men！　。　。　。

Argensola　had　a　strong　suspicion　that　if　he　had　been　a　native　of　any　other　land；　the　old　gentleman　would　have　praised　it　in　the　same　way。　All　this　affection　was　but　a　reflex　of　his　love　for　his　absent　son；　but　it　so　pleased　the　impressionable　fellow　that　he　almost　embraced　Don　Marcelo　when　he　took　his　departure。

After　that；　his　visits　to　the　studio　were　very　frequent。　　The　artist　was　obliged　to　recommend　his　friends　to　take　a　good　long　walk　after　lunch；　abstaining　from　reappearing　in　the　rue　de　la　Pompe　until　nightfall。　　Sometimes；　however；　Don　Marcelo　would　unexpectedly　present　himself　in　the　morning；　and　then　the　soulful　impressionist　would　have　to　scurry　from　place　to　place；　hiding　here；　concealing　there；　in　order　that　his　workroom　should　preserve　its　appearance　of　virtuous　labor。

〃Youth　。　。　。　youth！〃　the　vistor　would　murmur　with　a　smile　of　tolerance。

And　he　actually　had　to　make　an　effort　to　recall　the　dignity　of　his　years；　in　order　not　to　ask　Argensola　to　present　him　to　the　fair　fugitives　whose　presence　he　suspected　in　the　interior　rooms。　Perhaps　they　had　been　his　boy's　friends；　too。　　They　represented　a　part　of　his　past；　anyway；　and　that　was　enough　to　make　him　presume　that　they　had　great　charms　which　made　them　interesting。

These　surprises；　with　their　upsetting　consequences；　finally　made　the　painter　rather　regret　this　new　friendship；　and　the　invitations　to　dinner　which　he　was　constantly　receiving　bored　him；　too。　　He　found　the　Desnoyers　table　most　excellent；　but　too　tediousfor　the　father　and　mother　could　talk　of　nothing　but　their　absent　son。　　Chichi　scarcely　looked　at　her　brother's　friend。　　Her　attention　was　entirely　concentrated　on　the　war。　　The　irregularity　in　the　mails　was　exasperating　her　so　that　she　began　composing　protests　to　the　government　whenever　a　few　days　passed　by　without　bringing　any　letter　from　sub…Lieutenant　Lacour。

Argensola　excused　himself　on　various　pretexts　from　continuing　to　dine　in　the　avenue　Victor　Hugo。　　It　pleased　him　far　more　to　haunt　the　cheap　restaurants　with　his　female　flock。　　His　host　accepted　his　negatives　with　good…natured　resignation。

〃Not　to…day；　either？〃

And　in　order　to　compensate　for　his　guest's　non…appearance；　he　would　present　himself　at　the　studio　earlier　than　ever　on　the　day　following。

It　was　an　exquisite　pleasure　for　the　doting　father　to　let　the　time　slip　by　seated　on　the　divan　which　still　seemed　to　guard　the　very　hollow　made　by　Julio's　body；　gazing　at　the　canvases　covered　with　color　by　his　brush；　toasting　his　toes　by　the　beat　of　a　stove　which　roared　so　cosily　in　the　profound；　conventual　silence。　　It　certainly　was　an　agreeable　refuge；　full　of　memories　in　the　midst　of　monotonous　Paris　so　saddened　by　the　war　that　he　could　not　meet　a　friend　who　was　not　preoccupied　with　his　own　troubles。

His　former　purchasing　dissipations　had　now　lost　all　charm　for　him。　The　Hotel　Drouot　no　longer　tempted　him。　　At　that　time；　the　goods　of　German　residents；　seized　by　the　government；　were　being　auctioned　off；a　felicitous　retaliation　for　the　enforced　journey　which　the　fittings　of　the　castle　of　Villeblanche　had　taken　on　the　road　to　Berlin；　but　the　agents　told　him　in　vain　of　the　few　competitors　which　he　would　now　meet。　　He　no　longer　felt　attracted　by　these　extraordinary　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　th