"Why not, Monsieur? One must live."
As he spoke he moved an ash-tray deliberately within reach of my hand,
and poured the balance of the St. Julien into my glass without a quiver.
I smoked on in silence. Every spark of human feeling had evidently been
stifled in him. The Juggernaut of Paris, in rolling over him, had broken
every generous impulse, flattening him into a pulp of brutal
selfishness. That is why his face was so smooth and cold, his eyes so
dull and his voice so monotonous. I understood it all now. I changed the
subject. I did not know where it would lead if I kept on. Drowned lovers
were not what I was looking for.
"You say you have only been two years in Suresne?" I resumed,
carelessly, flicking the ashes from my cigar.
"But two years, Monsieur."
"Why did you leave Paris?"
"Ah, when one is over fifty it is quite done. Is it not so,
Monsieur?"--this made with a little deferential wave of his hand. I
noted the tribute to the staid painter, and nodded approvingly.
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