he color of
that painter's mind--that Norwegian, Munch. Disordered, farouche as is
his style its spiritual note enchains me. The title of the picture means
nothing, yet everything--'Les Curieux,' is it not?" "Yes, you know it
well enough by this time. What M. Patel could see in it I can't say." As
she sat down to the table--not at the head: that was significantly
empty--he admired her figure, maidenly still despite her majestic
bearing; admired the terse contour of her head and noticed, not without
a sigh, her small selfish ear. Madame Patel was nearing forty and her
November hair had begun to whiten, but in her long gray eyes was
invincible youth, poised, self-centred youth. She was deliberate in her
movements and her complexion a clear brown. Chardon followed her
example, eating and drinking, for they were exhausted by the ordeal of
hearing under the most painful conditions, a posthumous opera.

"The great, infinite cry of Nature,"--he returned to the picture. "How
difficult that is to get into one's art." "Yes, _mon ami_; but our dead
one succeeded, did he not?" She was plainly obsessed by the theme. "His
enemies--ah! the fools, fools. What a joy to see their astonished faces!
Did you notice the critics, did you notice Mille in particular? He was
in despair; for years that man pursued with his rancorous pen every
opera by M. Patel." She paused. "But now he is conquered at last. Ah!
Chardon, ah! Robert, Patel loved you, trusted you--and you helped him so
much with your experience, your superior dramatic knowledge, your poetic
gifts. You have been a noble friend indeed." She pressed his hand while
he sat beside her in a stupor. "The great, infinite cry of Nature," he
muttered. "And think of his kindness to me, a poor singer, so many years
younger than himself! No father could have treated a daughter with such
delicacy!" ...

Chardon looked up. "Yes," he assented, "he was very, very old--too old
for such a beautiful young wife." She started. "Not too old, M.
Chardon," she said, slightly raising her contralto voice: "What if he
was thirty years my senior! He married me to spare me the peril and
fatigue of a singer's life; few women can stand them--I least of all. He
loved me with a pure, narrow affection. I was his daughter, his staff.
You, he often called 'Son.'" She grazed the hem of tears. Chardon was
touched; he seized her large, shapely hand, firm and cold as iron, and
spoke rapidly.

"Listen, Madame Patel, liste