He alone  - and it is to be noted, he was the worst singer of the
three - took the music seriously to heart, and judged the serenade
from a high artistic point of view.  Elvira, on the other hand, was
preoccupied about their reception; and, as for Stubbs, he
considered the whole affair in the light of a broad joke.

"Know you the lair of May, the lovely month?" went the three voices
in the turnip-field.

The inhabitants were plainly fluttered; the light moved to and fro,
strengthening in one window, paling in another; and then the door
was thrown open, and a man in a blouse appeared on the threshold
carrying a lamp.  He was a powerful young fellow, with bewildered
hair and beard, wearing his neck open; his blouse was stained with
oil-colours in a harlequinesque disorder; and there was something
rural in the droop and bagginess of his belted trousers.

From immediately behind him, and indeed over his shoulder, a
woman's face looked out into the darkness; it was pale and a little
weary, although still young; it wore a dwindling, disappearing
prettiness, soon to be quite gone, and the expression was both
gentle and sour, and reminded one faintly of the taste of certain
drugs.  For all that, it was not a face to dislike; when the
prettiness had vanished, it seemed as if a certain pale beauty
might step in to take its place; and as both the mildness and the
asperity were characters of youth, it might be hoped that, with
years, both would merge into a constant, brave, and not unkindly
temper.

"What is all this?" cried the man.



CHAPTER VI



Leon had his hat in his hand at once.  He came forward with his
customary grace; it was a moment which would have earned him a
round of cheering on the stage.  Elvira and Stubbs advanced behind
him, like a couple of Admetus's sheep following the god Apollo.

"Sir," said Leon, "the hour is unpardonably late, and our little
serenade has the air of an impertinence.  Believe me, sir, it is an
appeal.  Monsieur is an artist, I perceive.  We are here three
artists benighted and without shelter, one a woman - a delicate
woman - in evening dress - in an interesting situation.  This will
not fail to touch the woman's heart of Madame, whom I perceive
indistinctly behind Monsieur her husband, and whose face speaks
eloquently of a well-regulated mind.  Ah! Monsieur, Madame - one
generous movement, and you make three people happy!  Two or three
hours beside your fire - I ask it of Monsieur in the name of Art -
I ask it of Madame by the sanctity of womanhood."

The two, as by a tacit consent, drew back from the door.

"Come in," said the man.

"Entrez, Madame," said the woman.

The door opened directly upon the kitchen of the house, which was
to all appearance the only sitting-room.  The furniture was both
plain and scanty; but there were one or two landscapes on the wall
handsomely framed, as if they had already visited the committee-
rooms of an exhibition and been thence extruded.  Leon walked up to
the pictures and represented the part of a connoisseur before each
in turn, with his usual dramatic insight and force.  The master of
the house, as if irresistibly attracted, followed him from canvas
to canvas with the lamp.  Elvira was led directly to the fire,
where she proceeded to warm herself, while Stubbs stood in the
middle of the floor and followed the proceedings of Leon with mild
astonishment in his eyes.

"You should see them by daylight," said the artist.

"I promise myself that pleasure," said Leon.  "You possess, sir, if
you will permit me an observation, the art of composition to a T."

"You are very good," returned the other.  "But should you not draw
nearer to the fire?"

"With all my heart," said Leon.

And the whole party was soon gathered at the table over a hasty and
not an elegant cold supper, washed down with the least of small
wines.  Nobody liked the meal, but nobody complained; they put a
good face upon it, one and all, and made a great clattering of
knives and forks.  To see Leon eating a single cold sausage was to
see a triumph; by the time he had done he had got through as much
pantomime as would have sufficed for a baron of beef, and he had
the relaxed expression of the over-eaten.

As Elvira had naturally taken a place by the side of Leon, and
Stubbs as naturally, although I believe unconsciously, by the side
of Elvira, the host and hostess were left together.  Yet it was to
be noted that they never addressed a word to each other, nor so
much as suffered their eyes to meet.  The interrupted skirmish
still survived in ill-feeling; and the instant the guests departed
it would break forth again as bitterly as ever.  The talk wandered
from this to that subject - for with one accord the party had
declared it was too late to go to bed; but those two never relaxed
towards each other; Goneril and Regan in a sisterly tiff were not
more bent on enmity.

It chanced that Elvira was so much tired by all the little
excitements of the night, that for once she laid aside her company
manners, which were both easy and correct, and in the most natural
manner in the world leaned her head on Leon's shoulder.  At the
same time, fatigue suggesting tenderness, she locked the fingers of
her right hand into those of her husband's left; and, half closing
her eyes, dozed off into a golden borderland between sleep and
waking.  But all the time she was not aware of what was passing,
and saw the painter's wife studying her with looks between contempt
and envy.

It occurred to Leon that his constitution demanded the use of some
tobacco; and he undid his fingers from Elvira's in order to roll a
cigarette.  It was gently done, and he took care that his
indulgence should in no other way disturb his wife's position.  But
it seemed to catch the eye of the painter's wife with a special
significancy.  She looked straight before her for an instant, and
then, with a swift and stealthy movement, took hold of her
husband's hand below the table.  Alas! she might have spared
herself the dexterity.  For the poor fellow was so overcome by this
caress that he stopped with his mouth open in the middle of a word,
and by the expression of his face plainly declared to all the
company that his thoughts had been diverted into softer channels.

If it had not been rather amiable, it would have been absurdly
droll.  His wife at once withdrew her touch; but it was plain she
had to exert some force.  Thereupon the young man coloured and
looked for a moment beautiful.

Leon and Elvira both observed the byplay, and a shock passed from
one to the other; for they were inveterate match-makers, especially
between those who were already married.

"I beg your pardon," said Leon suddenly.  "I see no use in
pretending.  Before we came in here we heard sounds indicating - if
I may so express myself - an imperfect harmony."

"Sir - " began the man.

But the woman was beforehand.

"It is quite true," she said.  "I see no cause to be ashamed.  If
my husband is mad I shall at least do my utmost to prevent the
consequences.  Picture to yourself, Monsieur and Madame," she went
on, for she passed Stubbs over, "that this wretched person - a
dauber, an incompetent, not fit to be a sign-painter - receives
this morning an admirable offer from an uncle - an uncle of my own,
my mother's brother, and tenderly beloved - of a clerkship with
nearly a hundred and fifty pounds a year, and that he - picture to
yourself! - he refuses it!  Why?  For the sake of Art, he says.
Look at his art, I say - look at it!  Is it fit to be seen?  Ask
him - is it fit to be sold?  And it is for this, Monsieur and
Madame, that he condemns me to the most deplorable existence,
without luxuries, without comforts, in a vile suburb of a country
town.  O non!" she cried, "non - je ne me tairai pas - c'est plus
fort que moi!  I take these gentlemen and this lady for judges - is
this kind? is it decent? is it manly?  Do I not deserve better at
his hands after having married him and" - (a visible hitch) - "done
everything in the world to please him."

I doubt if there were ever a more embarrassed company at a table;
every one looked like a fool; and the husband like the biggest.

"The art of Monsieur, however," said Elvira, breaking the silence,
"is not wanting in distinction."

"It has this distinction," said the wife, "that nobody will buy
it."

"I should have supposed a clerkship - " began Stubbs.

"Art is Art," swept in Leon.  "I salute Art.  It is the beautiful,
the divine; it is the spirit of the world, and the pride of life.
But - "  And the actor paused.

"A clerkship - " began Stubbs.

"I'll tell you what it is," said the painter.  "I am an artist, and
as this gentleman says, Art is this and the other; but of course,
if my wife is going to make my life a piece of perdition all day
long, I prefer to go and drown myself out of hand."

"Go!" said his wife.  "I should like to see you!"

"I was going to say," resumed Stubbs, "that a fellow may be a clerk
and paint almost as much as he likes.  I know a fellow in a bank
who makes capital water-colour sketches; he even sold one for
seven-and-six."

To both the women this seemed a plank of safety; each hopefully
interrogated the countenance of her lord; even Elvira, an artist
herself! - but indeed there must be something permanently
mercantile in the female nature.  The two men exchanged a glance;
it was tragic; not otherwise might two philosophers salute, as at
the end of a laborious life each recognised that he was still a
mystery to his disciples.

Leon arose.

"Art is Art," he repeated sadly.  "It is not water-colour sketches,
nor practising on a piano.  It is a life to be lived."

"And in the meantime people starve!" observed the woman of the
house.  "If that's a life, it is not one for me."

"I'll tell you what," burst forth Leon; "you, Madame, go into
another room and talk it over with my wife; and I'll stay here and
talk it over with your husband.  It may come to nothing, but let's
try."

"I am very willing," replied the young woman; and she proceeded to
light a candle.  "This way if you please."  And she led Elvira
upstairs into a bedroom.  "The fact is," said she, sitting down,
"that my husband cannot paint."

"No more can mine act," replied Elvira.

"I should have thought he could," returned the other; "he seems
clever."

"He is so, and the best of men besides," said Elvira; "but he
cannot act."

"At least he is not a sheer humbug like mine; he can at least
sing."

"You mistake Leon," returned his wife warmly.  "He does not even
pretend to sing; he has too fine a taste; he does so for a living.
And, believe me, neither of the men are humbugs.  They are people
with a mission - which they cannot carry out."

"Humbug or not," replied the other, "you came very near passing the
night in the fields; and, for my part, I live in terror of
starvation.  I should think it was a man's mission to think twice
about his wife.  But it appears not.  Nothing is their mission but
to play the fool.  Oh!" she broke out, "is it not something dreary
to think of that man of mine?  If he could only do it, who would
care?  But no - not he - no more than I can!"

"Have you any children?" asked Elvira.

"No; but then I may."

"Children change so much," said Elvira, with a sigh.

And just then from the room below there flew up a sudden snapping
chord on the guitar; one followed after another; then the voice of
Leon joined in; and there was an air being played and sung that
stopped the speech of the two women.  The wife of the painter stood
like a person transfixed; Elvira, looking into her eyes, could see
all manner of beautiful memories and kind thoughts that were
passing in and out of her soul with every note; it was a piece of
her youth that went before her; a green French plain, the smell of
apple-flowers, the far and shining ringlets of a river, and the
words and presence of love.

"Leon has hit the nail," thought Elvira to herself.  "I wonder
how."

The how was plain enough.  Leon had asked the painter if there were
no air connected with courtship and pleasant times; and having
learnt what he wished, and allowed an interval to pass, he had
soared forth into


"O mon amante,
O mon desir,
Sachons cueillir
L'heure charmante!"


"Pardon me, Madame," said the painter's wife, "your husband sings
admirably well."

"He sings that with some feeling," replied Elvira, critically,
although she was a little moved herself, for the song cut both ways
in the upper chamber; "but it is as an actor and not as a
musician."

"Life is very sad," said the other; "it so wastes away under one's
fingers."

"I have not found it so," replied Elvira.  "I think the good parts
of it last and grow greater every day."

"Frankly, how would you advise me?"

"Frankly, I would let my husband do what he wished.  He is
obviously a very loving painter; you have not yet tried him as a
clerk.  And you know - if it were only as the possible father of
your children - it is as well to keep him at his best."

"He is an excellent fellow," said the wife.


They kept it up till sunrise with music and all manner of good
fellowship; and at sunrise, while the sky was still temperate and
clear, they separated on the threshold with a thousand excellent
wishes for each other's welfare.  Castel-le-Gachis was beginning to
send up its smoke against the golden East; and the church bell was
ringing six.

"My guitar is a familiar spirit," said Leon, as he and Elvira took
the nearest way towards the inn, "it resuscitated a Commissary,
created an English tourist, and reconciled a man and wife."

Stubbs, on his part, went off into the morning with reflections of
his own.

"They are all mad," thought he, "all mad - but wonderfully decent."