once--an air from an opera and invent the steam-engine at the same
moment. Nature rebels. Then Providence and Nature do not agree. What
becomes of religion? It is all a mystery. Believe me, Madame, art is
easier than, nature, and painting is simpler than theology."

Maria Consuelo listened to Gouache's extraordinary remarks with a smile.

"You are either paradoxical, or irreligious, or both," she said.

"Irreligious? I, who carried a rifle at Mentana? No, Madame, I am a good
Catholic."

"What does that mean?"

"I believe in God, and I love my wife. I leave it to the Church to
define my other articles of belief. I have only one head, as you see."

Gouache smiled, but there was a note of sincerity in the odd statement
which did not escape his hearer.

"You are not of the type which belongs to the end of the century," she
said.

"That type was not invented when I was forming myself."

"Perhaps you belong rather to the coming age--the age of
simplification."

"As distinguished from the age of mystification--religious, political,
scientific and artistic," suggested Gouache. "The people of that day