François, who occasionally indulged in irony, pretended to share his opinion. “No doubt, no doubt,” said he, “but one must have a natural disposition to remain a child. For my part, unhappily, I’m consumed by a desire to learn and know. It’s deplorable, as I’m well aware, but I pass my days racking my brain over books.... I shall never know very much, that’s certain; and perhaps that’s the reason why I’m ever striving to learn a little more. You must at all events grant that work, like idleness, is a means of passing life, though of course it is a less elegant and aesthetic one.”
“Less aesthetic, precisely,” rejoined Hyacinthe. “Beauty lies solely in the unexpressed, and life is simply degraded when one introduces anything material into it.”
Simpleton though he was in spite of the enormity of his pretensions, he doubtless detected that François had been speaking ironically. So he turned to Antoine, who had remained seated in front of a block he was engraving. It was the one which represented Lise reading in her garden, for he was ever taking it in hand again and touching it up in his desire to emphasise his indication of the girl’s awakening to intelligence and life.
“So you engrave, I see,” said Hyacinthe. “Well, since I renounced versification—a little poem I had begun on the End of Woman—because words seemed to me so gross and cumbersome, mere paving-stones as it were, fit for labourers, I myself have had some idea of trying drawing, and perhaps engraving too. But what drawing can portray the mystery which lies beyond life, the only sphere that has any real existence and importance for us? With what pencil and on what kind of plate could one depict it? We should need something impalpable, something unheard of, which would merely suggest the essence of things and beings.”
“But it’s only by material means,” Antoine somewhat roughly replied, “that art can render the essence of things and beings, that is, their full significance as we understand it. To transcribe life is my great passion; and briefly life is the only mystery that there is in things and beings. When it seems to me that an engraving of mine lives, I’m well pleased, for I feel that I have created.”
Hyacinthe pouted by way of expressing his contempt of all fruitfulness. Any fool might beget offspring. It was the sexless idea, existing by itself, that was rare and exquisite. He tried to explain this, but became confused, and fell back on the conviction which he had brought back from Norway, that literature and art were done for in France, killed by baseness and excess of production.
“It’s evident!” said François gaily by way of conclusion. “To do nothing already shows that one has some talent!”
Meantime, Pierre and Marie listened and gazed around them, somewhat embarrassed by this strange visit which had set the usually grave and peaceful workroom topsy-turvy. The little Princess, though, evinced much amiability, and on drawing near to Marie admired the wonderful delicacy of some embroidery she was finishing. Before leaving, moreover, Rosemonde insisted upon Guillaume inscribing his autograph in an album which Hyacinthe had to fetch from her carriage. The young man obeyed her with evident boredom. It could be seen that they were already weary of one another. Pending a fresh caprice, however, it amused Rosemonde to terrorize her sorry victim. When she at length led him away, after declaring to Guillaume that she should always regard that visit as a memorable incident in her life, she made the whole household smile by saying: “Oh! so your sons knew Hyacinthe at college. He’s a good-natured little fellow, isn’t he? and he would really be quite nice if he would only behave like other people.”
That same day Janzen and Bache came to spend the evening with Guillaume. Once a week they now met at Montmartre, as they had formerly done at Neuilly. Pierre, on these occasions, went home very late, for as soon as Mère-Grand, Marie, and Guillaume’s sons had retired for the night, there were endless chats in the workroom, whence Paris could be seen spangled with thousands of gas lights. Another visitor at these times was Théophile Morin, but he did not arrive before ten o’clock, as he was detained by the work of correcting his pupils’ exercises or some other wearisome labour pertaining to his profession.
As soon as Guillaume had told the others of the Princess’s visit that afternoon, Janzen hastily exclaimed: “But she’s mad, you know. When I first met her I thought for a moment that I might perhaps utilise her for the cause. She seemed so thoroughly convinced and bold! But I soon found that she was the craziest of women, and simply hungered for new emotions!”