son," said Paragot that evening by his window in the Rue des
Saladiers, trying to disintegrate some fresh air from the fetid odours
that rose from the narrow street below, "you have won Madame de
Verneuil's heart. You are a lucky little Asticot. And I am proud of you
because I made you. You are a proof to her that I haven't spent all my
life in absorbing absinthe and omitting to decorate Europe with palaces.
Instead of bricks and mortar I have worked in soul-stuff and my
masterpiece is an artist,--and a great artist, by the Lord God!" he
cried with sudden access of passion, "if you will keep 'the sorrowful
great gift' pure and undefiled as a good woman does her chastity. You
must help me in my work, my son. Let me be able to point to you as the
one man in the world who does not prostitute his art for money or
reputation, who sees God beneath a leper's skin and proclaims Him
bravely, who reveals the magical beauty of humanity and compels the fool
and the knave and the man with the muck-rake and the harlot to see it,
and sends them away with hope in their hearts, and faith in the destiny
of the race and charity to one another--let me see this, my son, and by
heavens! I shall have done more with my life than erect a temple made by
hands--and I shall have justified my existence. You will do this for me,
Asticot?"

I was young. I was impressionable. I loved the man with a passionate
gratitude. I gave my promise. Heaven knows I have tried to keep it--with
what success is neither here nor there.

The fantastic element in the psychological state of Paragot I did not
consider then, but now it moves me almost to tears. Just think of it. I
was his one _apologia pro vita sua_; his one good work which he
presented with outstretched hands and pleading eyes, to Joanna. I love
the man too well to say more.

* * * * *

Madame de Verneuil went away leaving both of us desolate. Even the
prospect of visiting Melford a month hence--at Mrs. Rushworth's cordial
invitation--only intermittently raised Paragot's spirits. It did not
affect mine at all. I felt that a glory had faded from Menilmontant.
Still, I had the portrait to finish, and the preliminary sketches to
make of a deuce of a mythological picture for which Cazalet and
Fanchette (who for want of better company had become addicted during
August to my colleague) were to serve as models. I had my head and hands
full of occupation, whereas the reorganize