that she came from the womb of a physician's wife and not from that of the wife of a janitor, and he would show me her letters, emphasizing the correct spelling and the elegant turn of phrases! . . . He seemed to say : ' How I suffer, but how well written this is !'. . . What a pity ! "

" Ah ! You, too, love the woman ! " I exclaimed, when he finished his tirade.

And foolishly, I added :

" They say you have suffered much."

Lirat shrugged his shoulders and smiled :

" You talk like Delauney, of the Comedie-Frangaise. No, no, my kind friend, I have not suffered; I have seen others suffer, and that was enough for me ... do you understand ? "

Suddenly his voice became shrill, an almost cruel light shone in his eyes. He resumed :

" Ordinary people, poor devils like Charles Malterre, when stepped upon, are crushed, they disappear in the blood, in the mire, in the atrocious filth stirred up by woman's hands . . . that's unfortunate of course. . . . Humanity, however, does not claim them back; for nothing has been stolen from it. ... But artists, men of our calibre with big hearts and big brains, when these are lost, strangled, killed ! . . . You understand? ..."

His hand trembled, he crushed his crayon on the canvas.

" I have known three of them, three wonderful, divine ones ; two died by hanging themselves ; the third one, my teacher, is in a padded dark room at Bicetre! ... Of this pure genius there has been left only a lump of wan flesh, a sort of raving beast who grimaces and hurls himself at you with froth at his mouth ! . . . And in this crowd of cast-offs, how many young hopes have perished in the grasp of the beast of pr