I look at the paintings of that fool Lirat I feel a pain
in my stomach."
Before that I used to have the courage of my artistic convictions and. I defended them with fire. But now it seemed puerile on my part to engage in a discussion of art with Juliette, so I contented myself with hiding the pictures inside a press without much regret.
Finally the day arrived when everything was in admirable order; everything in its place, the smallest objects resting smartly on the tables, console tables, windows; the stands decorated with large leafed plants; the books in the library within reach; Spy in his new niche and flowers everywhere. . . . Nothing was missing, nothing, not even a rose, whose stem bathed in a long thin glass vase standing on my desk. Juliette was radiant, triumphant; she repeated without end:
"Look, look again how well your little wife has worked!"
And resting her head on my shoulder with a tender look in her eyes and a genuinely agitated voice, she murmured:
"Oh, my adored Jean, at last we are in our own home, our own home, just think of it! . . . How happy we shall be here, in our pretty nest! . . ."
The next morning Juliette said to me:
"It has been a long time since you saw Monsieur Lirat. I don't want him to think that I keep you from visiting him."
It was true, nevertheless. It really seemed as if for the last five months, I had forgotten all about poor Lirat. But had I really forgotten him? Alas no! . . . Shame kept me from going to him. . . . Shame alone estranged me from him. . . . I assure you that I would have never hesitated to announce to the whole
