le passion of possession. In her soul she would rather have had
the most degraded of Paragots in her arms, as her own unalienable
property, than have seen him honourable and prosperous in the arms of
another. Had she been of a nervous and emotional temperament there might
have been tragedy in the Rue des Saladiers, and the newspapers of Paris
might have chronicled yet another _crime passionnel_ and the appearance
of Blanquette before a weeping jury. But the days of tragedy were over.
Paragot thundered invectives against insincerity in Art (we were
discussing my famous mythological picture still on the easel at
Menilmontant) and Blanquette beamed approval. She remarked, referring to
my picture, that she didn't like so many unclad ladies. It was not
decent. Besides, if they lay in the grass like that, they would catch
cold.

"And they have no pocket-handkerchiefs to blow their noses," cried
Paragot.

Whereat Blanquette's sense of humour being tickled she screamed with
laughter. Narcisse sprang from sleep and barked, and there reigned great
happiness, in which even I, still reproachful of my master, had my
share.

"What a thing it is to be at home!" observed Paragot.

I had never heard him utter so domestic a sentiment.

"'After pleasure follows pain and after pain comes virtue.' This is
virtue with a vengeance," I reflected cynically.

"_Bien sur_," was Blanquette's inevitable response.

When she bade us good night, Paragot drew her down and kissed her cheek,
which was an unprecedented mark of domesticity. Blanquette turned
brick-red, and I suppose her foolish heart beat wildly. I have known my
own heart to beat wildly for far less, and I am not a woman; but I have
been in love.

"It is because you belong to me, my little Blanquette, and I am among
mine own people. We understand one another, don't we? _Et tout
comprendre c'est tout pardonner._"

When she had gone he smoked reflectively for a few moments.

"I never realised till now," said he, "the sense of stability and
comfort that Blanquette affords me. She is unchangeable. God has given
her a sense whereby she has pierced to the innermost thing that is I,
and externals don't matter. She has got nearer the true Paragot than
you, my son, although I know you love me."

"What is the true Paragot, Master?" I asked.

"There are only two that know it--Blanquette and the _bon Dieu_. I
don't."

"I only know," said I, "that I owe my life to you and that I love y