The Ink-Stain, Complete

P.

y housekeeper, has let the fire out. Hallo! she has lef

ich awaits my still unfinished work? Who

itting down to a game of whist with Counsellors Horlet and Hublette, of the Cou

e. By the way, is Mademoiselle Jeanne fair or dark? Let me try to recollect. Why, fair, of course. I remember the glint of gold in the little curls about her te

else. She has forgotten to shut my

ht is calm, its stars twinkling thro

und, so unhomely, so absolutely still. First I cast my eyes along the two rows of beds that stretched away down the dormitory-two parallel lines in long perspective; my comrades huddled under their blankets in shapeless masses

ain into the distance. The moon's clear rays invited me to clear up the mystery. I sprang from my bed, and ran in my nightshirt to open the window. It was about eleven o'clock. Together the keen night-air and the moonlight wrapped me round, thrilling me with delight. The large courtyard lay deserted with its leafless poplars and spiked railings. H

soul of my mother calling to me-my moth

m caring for thee; I can see thee," it said,

I strove feverishly to catch sight of her, following the voice as

s seized roug

cal? Are you mad? The wind is blowing r

and slippers, was rolli

nly, sir! But don

is

moth

head to one side and listened; then shut the win

ying about the moon," sai

me that dreaming was illegal and dangerou

e hidden springs. They waste their youth and vigor upon empty dreams, and in return for the fleeting glimpses they have enjoyed, for the perfect phrase half caught and lost again, will have given up the intercourse of their kind, and even friend

meet. What should they do here? Dreamers make no confidences; they shrivel up into themselves and are caught away on the four winds of heaven. Politics drive them mad;

ike myself there is only the difference of handiwork. He translates his dreams. I waste mine; but both dream. Dear old Lampron! Kindly, stalwart heart! He has withstood that hardening of the moral and physica

odesty, so that as yet people only say that he has "immense talent." No painter or engraver of repute-and he is both-has served a more conscientious apprenticeship, or sets greater store on thoroughness in his art. His drawing is correct beyond reproach-a little stiff, like the early painters. You can guess from his works his partiality for the old masters-Perugino, Fra Angelico, Botticelli, Memling, Holbein-who, though not the masters in fashion, will always be masters in vigor of outline, directness, in simple grace, and genuine feeling. He has copied in oils, water-colors, pen, or pencil, nearly all the pictures of these masters in the Louvre, in Germany, in Holland, and esp

ill lend wherewithal to buy a block of marble, to pay a model, to dine that evening. He lends-I should say gives; the words mean the same in many societies. Of all that he has gained, fame alone remains, and even this he tries to do without-modest, retiring, shunning all entertainments. I believe he would often be without the wherewithal to live were it

uperiority. His energy sets me up, his advice strengt

, the thirty-first of December, St. Sylvester's day-St. Sylvester! Why, that is his birthday! Ungrateful friend, to give no

ped lay figure leaning against a door seemed to listen to the whistling of the wind outside; a large glass bay opened upon the night. Nothing was alive in this part of the room, nothing alight except a few rare glints upon the gold of the frames, and the blades of two crossed swords. Only in a corner, at the far end, at a distance exaggerated by the shadows, sat Lampron engraving, solitary, motionl

and turned half around, narrowing hi

came quickly toward me, as if to pr

t wish me

tated a

why not?"

touches of the needle. He turned the reflector

what a cha

nfinite subtlety, and possessing, like all that master's portraits of women, a straightforward look that responds to the gazer's, but which he seeks to interrogat

know this,

s an old

ait, of

fi

; line, color, life,

ispers in the ear and guides the hand; a lightness of touch, the happy audacity of the beginner, a wealth of darin

do yo

question. Why? I

d such a model again

ight. I never coul

of rank? a p

hing l

s become

appy in her lot-wealthy, spoiled, flattered, speaking with disdainful lips at nightfall, on the terrace of her villa among the great pines, of

her so-still

ad, my friend, and that ideal beauty is now

r gi

his work with such genuine sadness that I was awed. I divined that in his past, of wh

t that be; I come to wis

et to work and forgot all about it. I am glad you came. She would feel hurt, dear

vestre, but I, too, hav

ha

rought no

ole basketful, enough to keep a hive of bees or kill a man in his slee

r, you

at I say-a

of Milo threw us a lofty glance, Polyhymnia stood forth pensive and sank back into shadow. At the door I took the draped

ttle. Her kind old rough and wrinkled face beamed upon us. She thrust her needles u

nsieur Mouillard," said she,

earful! Love for his art has changed

the fire and shook out his half-smoked pipe against the bars, a t

hild!"

urning

Never have we celebrated a Saint Sylves

have no flowers. But Sylvestre tells me that you have just re

r stopped knitting to talk or to listen, laid her work upon

e told

his slippered feet stretched out

Yet why should he not know all? Surely he is our friend enough to know all. He should have k

wist the wool between her needles, but n

ary and at M. Charnot's. I tried to be funny, and fancied I succeeded. The old lady smiled

enemies, one of

eeds. One can not prevent them, and great sorrows do

swear. If you cou

d y

is nothin

you s

without looking in my face,

aug

re you that she is absolutely indifferent to me. But eve

an of letters, a dreamer, an artist in your way. You have to help you on entering the redoubtable lists of love neither foresight, n

agree. Wh

one like you, whose first passion, rash, but deep as yours would be, broke his heart

nterrupted him afr

you a happy bir

on 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

beard, tinged already with gray, a tear was trickling. I noticed that M

d 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.'

fresh tears, her eyes followed her son with restless compassion. He, beside the window,

ite wood. "See," said he,

d out in slightly faded bunches, spreading a sweet smell in which there breathed alre

moment at the he

have too many reminders wit

t them upon the coals in the hearth. They shrivelled, c

my etching. Good-by, Fab

d, he left the room and

to follow him an

. "I will go myself," sai

saw me somewhat recovered from th

r he never hid anything from me. You can judge from her portrait whether hers was not the face to attract an artist like Sylve

ed to let t

I said to him: 'Sylvestre, this can never be-never!' He was convinced against his will. Then s

r saw he

aid of their reproaches, and I did not feel sure of myself. But no, they suffered for their daughter as I for my son, and that brought us together. Still, I did not give up the portrait; Sylvestre set too great store by it. He insists

er knew my mother, I could find but little to say. All th