ate you on your friend
Dechartre. He has a charming mind."

She added:

"Perhaps he is a little too timid."

Vence reminded her that he had told her she would find Dechartre
interesting.

"I know him by heart; he has been my friend since our childhood."

"You knew his parents?"

"Yes. He is the only son of Philippe Dechartre."

"The architect?"

"The architect who, under Napoleon III, restored so many castles and
churches in Touraine and the Orleanais. He had taste and knowledge.
Solitary and quiet in his life, he had the imprudence to attack
Viollet-le-Duc, then all-powerful. He reproached him with trying to
reestablish buildings in their primitive plan, as they had been, or
as they might have been, at the beginning. Philippe Dechartre, on the
contrary, wished that everything which the lapse of centuries had added
to a church, an abbey, or a castle should be respected. To abolish
anachronisms and restore a building to its primitive unity, seemed to
him to be a scientific barbarity as culpable as that of ignorance. He
said: 'It is a crime to efface the successive imprints made in stone
by the hands of our ancestors. New stones cut in old style are false
witnesses.' He wished to limit the task of the archaeologic architect to
that of supporting and consolidating walls. He was right. Everybody said
that he was wrong. He achieved his ruin by dying young, while his rival
triumphed. He bequeathed an honest fortune to his widow and his son.
Jacques Dechartre was brought up by his mother, who adored him. I do
not think that maternal tenderness ever was more impetuous. Jacques is a
charming fellow; but he is a spoiled child."

"Yet he appears so indifferent, so easy to understand, so distant from
everything."

"Do not rely on this. He has a tormented and tormenting imagination."

"Does he like women?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Oh, it isn't with any idea of match-making."

"Yes, he likes them. I told you that he was an egoist. Only selfish men
really love women. After the death of his mother, he had a long liaison
with a well-known actress, Jeanne Tancrede."

Madame Martin remembered Jeanne Tancrede; not very pretty, but graceful
with a certain slowness of action in playing romantic roles.

"They lived almost together in a little house at Auteuil," Paul Vence
continued. "I often called on them. I found him lost in his dreams,
forgetting to model a figure drying under its cloths, alone with
himself, pursuing his