"

"Yes, I see her so--still beautiful."

"You are good at guessing, Fabien. She is dead, my friend, and that
ideal beauty is now a few white bones at the bottom of a grave."

"Poor girl!"

Sylvestre had used a sarcastic tone which was not usual with him. He
was contemplating his work with such genuine sadness that I was awed.
I divined that in his past, of which I knew but little, Lampron kept a
sorrow buried that I had all unwittingly revived.

"My friend," said I, "let that be; I come to wish you many happy
returns."

"Many happy returns? Ah, yes, my poor mother wished me that this
morning; then I set to work and forgot all about it. I am glad you
came. She would feel hurt, dear soul, if I forgot to pass a bit of this
evening with her. Let us go and find her."

"With all my heart, Sylvestre, but I, too, have forgotten something."

"What?"

"I have brought no flowers."

"Never mind, she has plenty; strong-scented flowers of the south, a
whole basketful, enough to keep a hive of bees or kill a man in
his sleep, which you will. It is a yearly attention from an unhappy
creditor."

"Debtor, you mean."

"I mean what I say--a creditor."

He lifted the lamp. The shadows shifted and ran along the walls like
huge spiders, the crossed swords flashed, the Venus of Milo threw us a
lofty glance, Polyhymnia stood forth pensive and sank back into shadow.
At the door I took the draped lay figure in my arms. "Excuse me," I
said as I moved it--and we left the studio for Madame Lampron's little
sitting-room.

She was seated near a small round table, knitting socks, her feet on a
hot-water bottle. Her kind old rough and wrinkled face beamed upon us.
She thrust her needles under the black lace cap she always wore, and
drew them out again almost immediately.

"It needed your presence, Monsieur Mouillard," said she, "to drag him
from his work."

"Saint Sylvester's day, too. It is fearful! Love for his art has changed
your son's nature, Madame Lampron."

She gave him a tender look, as on entering the room he bent over the
fire and shook out his half-smoked pipe against the bars, a thing he
never failed to do the moment he entered his mother's room.

"Dear child!" said she.

Then turning to me:

"You are a good friend, Monsieur Fabien. Never have we celebrated a
Saint Sylvester without you since you came to Paris."

"Yet this evening, Madame, I have failed in my traditions, I have no
flowers. But Sylvestre tells