not to see standing, earlier or later, before
him, the stern irony existing in human affairs. It had been
standing before him for a long time, but, standing behind veils,
such as labor, success--the eternal lack of time. Now the veils
had fallen. He beheld the irony clearly. It was embodied in the
swollen vase of Chinese porcelain, which, though not standing in
that chamber, seemed to bend forward from the corner, with
sloping eyes painted in sapphire. The figure leered at him; bared
its white teeth, and with swollen body seemed to burst from
laughter. What could he place against that monster? how was he to
cover it?--he knew not. He understood well that at the bottom of
this all lay an error. On the road of life there was something
which he had not noted; something which he had not recognized; he
had let something slip from his hands which still were so
rapacious; he, an architect, observing with mighty diligence the
law of equilibrium in buildings reared by him, had not preserved
that equilibrium in his own house; so that now it was hard for
him to dwell there, and he wished to depart from it.

When he goes it will be better for all. Better for him and for
them. That unhappy woman will be free, and may become happy.
Maryan will return from the end of the earth to receive his
inheritance, if for no other reason. Irene will reappear in
society. Irene, what a strange character!--so deeply tender, and
so insolent. How savagely she hurled at him the word "vileness!"
But she was right. He had committed that moment a vile act, just
as in general he was forced to commit many follies--but "useless
cruelty" will give reward--Irene will learn that he was not
so--no, neither she nor anyone will know the nature of his act.
He raised his head, in which he felt once more an access of
pride. No, he will not give account of his motives to anyone; nor
confess on his knees, like a penitent sinner; nor will he take
the pose of a hero. Let them think what they like. How can that
concern him? Nothing concerns him.

By chance he raised his eyes and saw, hanging in the air, the
face of a maiden, oval, rosy, and bright-haired which smiled at
him lovingly, and made a clear motion, inviting him. Greuze's
picture was not there, still the vision was present. With eyes
raised toward it Darvid smiled.

"Yes, little one, quickly."

He took a pen and began a telegram to Irene. He penned the
address, and then wrote: "Come as quickly as possible