dreaded being alone with his friend, still chagrined over the evening's
events. The conversation with the Russian interested him, so they all
went up in the elevator together. Argensola suggested that this would
be a good opportunity to uncork one of the many bottles which he was
keeping in the kitchen. Tchernoff could go home through the studio door
that opened on the stairway.

The great window had its glass doors wide open; the transoms on the
patio side were also open; a breeze kept the curtains swaying, moving,
too, the old lanterns, moth-eaten flags and other adornments of the
romantic studio. They seated themselves around the table, near a window
some distance from the light which was illuminating the other end of
the big room. They were in the shadow, with their backs to the interior
court. Opposite them were tiled roofs and an enormous rectangle of blue
shadow, perforated by the sharp-pointed stars. The city lights were
coloring the shadowy space with a bloody reflection.

Tchernoff drank two glasses, testifying to the excellence of the liquid
by smacking his lips. The three were silent with the wondering and
thoughtful silence which the grandeur of the night imposes. Their
eyes were glancing from star to star, grouping them in fanciful lines,
forming them into triangles or squares of varying irregularity. At
times, the twinkling radiance of a heavenly body appeared to broaden the
rays of light, almost hypnotizing them.

The Russian, without coming out of his revery, availed himself of
another glass. Then he smiled with cruel irony, his bearded face taking
on the semblance of a tragic mask peeping between the curtains of the
night.