Seguin smiled and glanced at the writer, who had drawn near. And when he
saw him examining the book and looking quite moved by the compliment paid
to it, he exclaimed: "My dear fellow, the binder brought it here this
morning, and I was awaiting an opportunity to surprise you with it. It is
the pearl of my collection! What do you think of the idea--that lily
which symbolizes triumphant purity, and those thistles, the plants which
spring up among ruins, and which symbolize the sterility of the world, at
last deserted, again won over to the only perfect felicity? All your work
lies in those symbols, you know."

"Yes, yes. But you spoil me; you will end by making me proud."

Mathieu had read Santerre's novel, having borrowed a copy of it from Mme.
Beauchene, in order that his wife might see it, since it was a book that
everybody was talking of. And the perusal of it had exasperated him.
Forsaking the customary bachelor's flat where in previous works he had
been so fond of laying scenes of debauchery, Santerre had this time tried
to rise to the level of pure art and lyrical symbolism. The story he told
was one of a certain Countess Anne-Marie, who, to escape a rough-mannered
husband of extreme masculinity, had sought a refuge in Brittany in the
company of a young painter endowed with divine inspiration, one Norbert,
who had undertaken to decorate a convent chapel with paintings that
depicted his various visions. And for thirty years he went on painting
there, ever in colloquy with the angels, and ever having Anne-Marie
beside him. And during those thirty years of love the Countess's beauty
remained unimpaired; she was as young and as fresh at the finish as at
the outset; whereas certain secondary personages, introduced into the
story, wives and mothers of a neighboring little town, sank into physical
and mental decay, and monstrous decrepitude. Mathieu considered the