eutenant in the Reserves. She was
a blonde, heavy and rather anaemic, with bright eyes and a sentimental
expression. On holidays she spent long hours at the piano, playing
musical reveries, always the same. At other times Argensola saw
her through the interior window working in the kitchen aided by her
companion, the two laughing over their clumsiness and inexperience in
preparing the Sunday dinner.

The concierge thought that this woman was a German, but she herself said
that she was Swiss. She was a cashier in a shop--not the one in which
her husband was employed. In the mornings they left home together,
separating in the Place d'Etoile. At seven in the evening they met here,
greeting each other with a kiss, like lovers who meet for the first
time; and then after supper, they returned to their nest in the rue de
la Pompe. All Argensola's attempts at friendliness with these neighbors
were repulsed because of their self-centredness. They responded with
freezing courtesy; they lived only for themselves.

The other apartment of two rooms was occupied by a single man. He was a
Russian or Pole who almost always returned with a package of books, and
passed many hours writing near the patio window. From the very first the
Spaniard took him to be a mysterious man, probably a very distinguished
one--a true hero of a novel. The foreign appearance of this Tchernoff
made a great impression upon him--his dishevelled beard, and oily
locks, his spectacles upon a large nose that seemed deformed by a
dagger-thrust. There emanated from him, like an invisible nimbus, an
odor of cheap wine and soiled clothing.

When Argensola caught a glimpse of him through the service door he would
say to himself, "Ah, Friend Tchernoff is returning," and thereupon
he would saunter out to the stairway in order to have a chat with his
neighbor. For a long time the stranger discouraged all approach to his
quarters, which fact led the Spaniard to infer that he devoted himself
to alchemy and kindred mysteries. When he finally was allowed to enter
he saw only books, many books, books everywhere--scattered on the floor,
heaped upon benches, piled in corners, overflowing on to broken-down
chairs, old tables, and a bed that was only made up now and then when
the owner, alarmed by the increasing invasion of dust and cobwebs, was
obliged to call in the aid of his friend, the concierge.

Argensola finally realized, not without a certain disenchantment, that
ther