kind to me my neurasthenia is a matter of indifference, and I do not even trouble about engineering."
He tried to laugh away the seriousness of his tone, but he did not quite succeed. Hitherto I had been amused at his singular plight and his fatalistic acceptance of it. But now I was touched.
"I'm talking very freely to you," he said.
"My dear fellow," I burst out, "do let me see her portrait."
He shook his head.
"Unfortunately her portrait is all over Paris. She likes it so. But I prefer to have no portrait myself. My feeling is—"
At that moment the valet opened the door and we heard vivacious voices in the corridor.
"She is here," said Octave Boissy, in a whisper suddenly dramatic. He stood up; I also. His expression had profoundly changed. He controlled his gestures and his attitude, but he could not control his eye. And when I saw that glance I understood what he meant by "living." I understood that, for him, neither fame nor artistic achievement nor wealth had any value in his life. His life consisted in one thing only.
"Eh bien, Blanche!" he murmured amorously.
Blanche Lemonnier invaded the room with arrogance. She was the odious creature whose departure in her automobile had so upset my arrival.
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