One night not long after this, Grenoble, after trying in vain to fall asleep, sprang from his bed, and dressed himself hastily. He was subject to fearful head-aches, and at such times his head felt as if it were being slowly crushed in a vice. He opened his door gently to go down to the garden. As he stepped into the hall, he was astonished to hear steps near him. He waited, motionless, and saw by the moonlight streaming through the window on the landing, that it was Claude, creeping softly up stairs, listening and stopping from time to time, as if afraid of being overheard. When he had disappeared in the second story, Grenoble went on his way to the garden, trying to imagine what could take Claude up stairs at this time of night, as Paul and his wife were the only ones on that floor. He thought for an instant of going up himself to see if any one were sick, but was afraid he might intrude. He strolled around the garden a few minutes when he noticed that light was streaming from Odette's window, and glancing up, he was perfectly thunder-struck at what he saw. The shadow of two figures in a close embrace was thrown on the white curtain. Claude was with Odette. It was such a sudden shock to Grenoble's loyal heart that it felled him to the ground. But it could not be as he imagined! He must have made a mistake! However, he had certainly seen Claude not five minutes ago, creeping cautiously to the rendezvous. Grenoble arose and walked to a garden-seat, staggering as if intoxicated. Then he sat down and tried to collect his thoughts. The artist was Odette's lover! A sudden light seemed thrown on their life for the last few months. He thought of those frequent tÊte-À-tÊtes, drives, etc., and that Claude seemed to have relinquished painting entirely. He would go to his studio, get his easel ready, spread his paints, and that would be all. His hand seemed too heavy to work, or his head was empty of ideas. Grenoble had not paid much attention to this idleness, as he had taken it for granted it was one of those fits of inactivity that are common to all artists when the flame of inspiration seems to burn lower and lower. But now he understood it. Claude was carried away by a terrible passion that seemed to have destroyed at the same time his genius and his honor.

Grenoble meditated a long time, sunk in the deepest despair. He thought of Elaine, that pure, noble woman! What would become of her should she ever learn the truth? What would become of Paul? And the cause of all this misery was Claude, his own, dearest friend, the man he loved best in the whole world, of whom he was so proud, enjoying his successes and fame as if they were his own. He was dizzy and faint from his excessive emotion; going back to his room he threw himself on the bed. Late in the morning he fell asleep from sheer exhaustion. When he awoke he had formed his plan, he knew what he must do. Some day or other, the disgraceful secret would be found out; he was sure of that. Who knew but what Elaine's suspicions were already aroused? Grenoble recalled her pale face, sadly changed in the last few weeks. The morning passed; he had left the house and did not return till one, when he went to the studio. He found Claude there alone, gazing mournfully at his Danae that he could not finish. He turned around as Grenoble entered, offering him his hand.

The sculptor did not take it, but said: "Claude, be more careful next time you go to your daughter-in-law's apartments. Others might see you, as I did last night."

Claude started in surprise and consternation. Grenoble continued:

"It is not for me to condemn you. You have been inexpressibly kind and generous to me. I was dying of hunger; you took me to your home. I was loaded with debts; you set me free. For ten years have I eaten your bread, slept under your roof, shared your joys and sorrows. Such ties can never be broken."

He approached Claude, who was listening with down-cast eyes, not even seeking to defend himself with a word. He took his hand. "My poor friend, you have done wrong."

Claude raised his head and answered hastily: "Of course, I have done wrong! Do I not know that? I feel that I have committed a great crime! But you do not know that we loved each other before she was married. We had met long ago. Is it my fault, or hers, that the love revived in our hearts?"

"Do not seek excuses. There are none. You have fallen with her into an abyss. You think it an excuse that you had met and loved before her marriage! You call that an excuse. If she loved you, what caused her to marry Paul? If you loved her, why did you consent to the marriage? The more I reflect, the less I understand. The only thing I do understand is that you are dishonored. I am not condemning you. I am only trying to open your eyes to the truth."

He put his arm around Claude as if he were a little child.

"You must leave home, or she must. I beseech you, do not refuse me. Am I not your friend, your brother? Breaking off this shameful intrigue now—this minute—you can not erase the past, but you can at least preserve the future. Think of that noble woman, your wife! She would never survive such a shock as this would be! She worships in you the incarnation of genius and love. Do not force her to dash you from the pedestal where she has placed you. It is not alone for her I speak, but for yourself. Elaine is half your inspiration. Your paintings have been marvelous works of art ever since your marriage; and, now that you are untrue to her, see! you have not painted a stroke in two months. But I am only appealing to your interest. I wish to touch your heart. You are good; you would not voluntarily torture that loyal woman, who loves you so fondly, who worships you next to her Maker, whose life is purity and innocence itself. You are good and noble, Claude. Will you not promise me to shake off these odious fetters? Will you not, dear, dear friend?"

Sirvin had gently extricated himself from Grenoble's embrace. Sinking into an arm-chair, he sat motionless, his head bowed, listening, but not touched by what his friend was saying. The sculptor saw that words, reproaches, supplications, were all in vain. He became angry, and, tearing the wet cloths from the bust of Claude in the center of the studio, he gravely, solemnly examined his work. Gradually tears came to his eyes. "It is fine," he said. "I love you, Claude. I put all my talent, all my soul, into this clay. I molded what I saw in you—your beauty, your warm heart, your genius, your inspired eloquence. It is wonderful, but I added goodness, and the portrait is not perfect—you are not good!"

He buried his fingers in the soft clay, destroying in one moment the work of so many months, and, tearing it to pieces, threw the moist clay on the floor.

"All gone! I thought you had a noble, loyal heart; you have none at all. I thought you a genius; but you are not. You are cruel, you are wicked, without strength and without goodness. There was a Claude Sirvin that I used to love; he is dead. Farewell, dear Claude—dead, dead and buried! buried and gone! Another grand promise of genius and truth crumbles to dust when the hour of fulfillment has arrived. Wretched man that I am! Claude is dead! Truth is dead! Oh, wretched world!" And he sobbed like a little child, while Claude dashed out of the room, conquered by his emotion. He heard Grenoble's accusations ringing in his ears, and he knew they were all true. This odious passion was destroying every thing good and noble in his character. His talent had flown, his honor was tarnished. He saw Elaine dying of grief, Paul committing suicide to end his disgrace.

He remembered that Odette must be awaiting him in the drawing-room, as they were to take a walk together at two. This drawing-room, very large and elegant, occupied the front of the first floor, with four large windows opening on the avenue. The curtains were carefully closed to shut out the hot June sunshine, so that it was quite dark in the room. At each end was a large door, hung with heavy tapestry. One of these doors opened into Elaine's apartment, the other into the hall. When Claude entered, he found Odette already waiting for him.

"I thought you were never coming. Had you forgotten our proposed walk?"

He put his arms around her, folding her close to his throbbing heart, and pressing his lips to hers in a long passionate caress.

She was astonished. "Why, what is the matter? You are trembling!"

"Grenoble saw us last night."

"Grenoble?"

"I have no time to tell you about it—somebody might interrupt us here."

"Do you love me?" she asked.

At this moment the heavy portiÉre was raised at the other end of the room, and Elaine appeared. Claude replied:

"Do I love you? More than life or honor." Elaine came from the sunshine in her room and could not see any thing in the dim light of the drawing-room, but she recognized the voice and heard his cruel words. She uttered a low cry and disappeared. The two lovers started back in horror. Who had overheard them? Odette spoke first:

"No one could have seen us," she said; "it is so dark in here. I will go to my room."

They crossed the hall without speaking, both a prey to the utmost anxiety and distress. Who had surprised their guilty secret? Was it Elaine? Could it have been Paul? As they arrived at the foot of the stair-case they met Paul coming to find them.

"Good morning," he said, smiling. "It is such a lovely day, I should like to join you in your walk. When you are ready you can come for me to my mother's room. I am afraid she is not very well."