The summer passed, and with it the freshness and novelty of Paris, thoug_ugene never really wearied of it. The peculiarities of a different nationa_ife, the variations between this and his own country in national ideals, a_bviously much more complaisant and human attitude toward morals, a matter-of-
fact acceptance of the ills, weaknesses and class differences, to say nothin_f the general physical appearance, the dress, habitations and amusements o_he people, astonished as much as they entertained him. He was never weary o_tudying the differences between American and European architecture, notin_he pacific manner in which the Frenchman appeared to take life, listening t_ngela's unwearied comments on the cleanliness, economy, thoroughness wit_hich the French women kept house, rejoicing in the absence of the America_eaning to incessant activity. Angela was struck by the very moderate price_or laundry, the skill with which their concierge—who governed this quarte_nd who knew sufficient English to talk to her—did her marketing, cooking,
sewing and entertaining. The richness of supply and aimless waste of American_as alike unknown. Because she was naturally of a domestic turn Angela becam_ery intimate with Madame Bourgoche and learned of her a hundred and on_ittle tricks of domestic economy and arrangement.
"You're a peculiar girl, Angela," Eugene once said to her. "I believe yo_ould rather sit down stairs and talk to that French-woman than meet the mos_nteresting literary or artistic personage that ever was. What do you fin_hat's so interesting to talk about?"
"Oh, nothing much," replied Angela, who was not unconscious of the implie_int of her artistic deficiencies. "She's such a smart woman. She's s_ractical. She knows more in a minute about saving and buying and making _ittle go a long way than any American woman I ever saw. I'm not interested i_er any more than I am in anyone else. All the artistic people do, that I ca_ee, is to run around and pretend that they're a whole lot when they're not."
Eugene saw that he had made an irritating reference, not wholly intended i_he way it was being taken.
"I'm not saying she isn't able," he went on. "One talent is as good a_nother, I suppose. She certainly looks clever enough to me. Where is he_usband?"
"He was killed in the army," returned Angela dolefully.
"Well I suppose you'll learn enough from her to run a hotel when you get bac_o New York. You don't know enough about housekeeping now, do you?"
Eugene smiled with his implied compliment. He was anxious to get Angela's min_ff the art question. He hoped she would feel or see that he meant nothing,
but she was not so easily pacified.
"You don't think I'm so bad, Eugene, do you?" she asked after a moment. "Yo_on't think it makes so much difference whether I talk to Madame Bourgoche?
She isn't so dull. She's awfully smart. You just haven't talked to her. Sh_ays she can tell by looking at you that you're a great artist. You'r_ifferent. You remind her of a Mr. Degas that once lived here. Was he a grea_rtist?"
"Was he!" said Eugene. "Well I guess yes. Did he have this studio?"
"Oh, a long time ago—fifteen years ago."
Eugene smiled beatifically. This was a great compliment. He could not hel_iking Madame Bourgoche for it. She was bright, no doubt of that, or she woul_ot be able to make such a comparison. Angela drew from him, as before, tha_er domesticity and housekeeping skill was as important as anything else i_he world, and having done this was satisfied and cheerful once more. Eugen_hought how little art or conditions or climate or country altered th_undamental characteristics of human nature. Here he was in Paris,
comparatively well supplied with money, famous, or in process of becoming so,
and quarreling with Angela over little domestic idiosyncrasies, just as i_ashington Square.
By late September Eugene had most of his Paris sketches so well laid in tha_e could finish them anywhere. Some fifteen were as complete as they could b_ade. A number of others were nearly so. He decided that he had had _rofitable summer. He had worked hard and here was the work to show for it
—twenty-six canvases which were as good, in his judgment, as those he ha_ainted in New York. They had not taken so long, but he was surer o_imself—surer of his method. He parted reluctantly with all the lovely thing_e had seen, believing that this collection of Parisian views would be a_mpressive to Americans as had been his New York views. M. Arkquin for one,
and many others, including the friends of Deesa and Dula were delighted wit_hem. The former expressed the belief that some of them might be sold i_rance.
Eugene returned to America with Angela, and learning that he might stay in th_ld studio until December first, settled down to finish the work for hi_xhibition there.
The first suggestion that Eugene had that anything was wrong with him, asid_rom a growing apprehensiveness as to what the American people would think o_is French work, was in the fall, when he began to imagine—or perhaps it wa_eally true—that coffee did not agree with him. He had for several years no_een free of his old-time complaint,—stomach trouble; but gradually it wa_eginning to reappear and he began to complain to Angela that he was feelin_n irritation after his meals, that coffee came up in his throat. "I thin_'ll have to try tea or something else if this doesn't stop," he observed. Sh_uggested chocolate and he changed to that, but this merely resulted i_hifting the ill to another quarter. He now began to quarrel with his work—no_eing able to get a certain effect, and having sometimes altered and re-
altered and re-re-altered a canvas until it bore little resemblance to th_riginal arrangement, he would grow terribly discouraged; or believe that h_ad attained perfection at last, only to change his mind the followin_orning.
"Now," he would say, "I think I have that thing right at last, thank heaven!"
Angela would heave a sigh of relief, for she could feel instantly any distres_r inability that he felt, but her joy was of short duration. In a few hour_he would find him working at the same canvas changing something. He gre_hinner and paler at this time and his apprehensions as to his future rapidl_ecame morbid.
"By George! Angela," he said to her one day, "it would be a bad thing for m_f I were to become sick now. It's just the time that I don't want to. I wan_o finish this exhibition up right and then go to London. If I could do Londo_nd Chicago as I did New York I would be just about made, but if I'm going t_et sick—"
"Oh, you're not going to get sick, Eugene," replied Angela, "you just thin_ou are. You want to remember that you've worked very hard this summer. An_hink how hard you worked last winter! You need a good rest, that's what yo_eed. Why don't you stop after you get this exhibition ready and rest awhile?
You have enough to live on for a little bit. M. Charles will probably sell _ew more of those pictures, or some of those will sell and then you can wait.
Don't try to go to London in the spring. Go on a walking tour or go down Sout_r just rest awhile, anywhere,—that's what you need."
Eugene realized vaguely that it wasn't rest that he needed so much as peace o_ind. He was not tired. He was merely nervously excited and apprehensive. H_egan to sleep badly, to have terrifying dreams, to feel that his heart wa_ailing him. At two o'clock in the morning, the hour when for some reaso_uman vitality appears to undergo a peculiar disturbance, he would wake with _ense of sinking physically. His pulse would appear to be very low, and h_ould feel his wrists nervously. Not infrequently he would break out in a col_erspiration and would get up and walk about to restore himself. Angela woul_ise and walk with him. One day at his easel he was seized with a peculia_ervous disturbance—a sudden glittering light before his eyes, a rumbling i_is ears, and a sensation which was as if his body were being pricked with te_illion needles. It was as though his whole nervous system had given way a_very minute point and division. For the time being he was intensel_rightened, believing that he was going crazy, but he said nothing. It came t_im as a staggering truth that the trouble with him was over-indulgenc_hysically; that the remedy was abstinence, complete or at least partial; tha_e was probably so far weakened mentally and physically that it would be ver_ifficult for him to recover; that his ability to paint might be seriousl_ffected—his life blighted.
He stood before his canvas holding his brush, wondering. When the shock ha_ompletely gone he laid the brush down with a trembling hand. He walked to th_indow, wiped his cold, damp forehead with his hand and then turned to get hi_oat from the closet.
"Where are you going?" asked Angela.
"For a little walk. I'll be back soon. I don't feel just as fresh as I might."
She kissed him good-bye at the door and let him go, but her heart trouble_er.
"I'm afraid Eugene is going to get sick," she thought. "He ought to sto_ork."