"I remember bayonetting two men," said the soldier, "and then I remember nothing else. And that's six months ago. Still, I'm getting well, and then there's only one thing on earth that I really want with a passionate desire ..."
"I know! I know!" said the visitor, moistening his pencil.
"Never to see any more war as long as I live," the soldier continued.
III.
The aged artist sat in his luxurious studio surrounded by his masterpieces—that is, by the pictures he had never been able to sell.
The gem of the collection stood on an easel in the middle of the room; while a connoisseur, hat in hand, inspected it closely, enthusiastically, breathlessly. Then, coming over to where the artist was resting, he sat down opposite to him and in a voice trembling with emotion asked, "Tell me, how do you mix your colours?"
There was a deep silence, almost painful in its intensity. A drawing-pin fell with a deafening crash.
The venerable painter stood up with a calm and leonine expression. "I use an ivory palette knife," he said.
IV.
The shadows were lengthening in the beautiful garden. It was a warm spring evening. The old sun-dial had just struck seven.