"But those who suffer," he said, "only get what they deserve. It needs
but a moment to free oneself from all one's troubles. Isn't it so?"

She admitted the fact; certainly there were such things as sudden
opportunities, especially on the stage.

"Heaven knows," he continued in a deep, brooding voice, "it's not the
stage I am worrying about. I know I shall make a name for myself one
day, and a big one. But what's the good of being a great artist if one
isn't happy? There are stupid worries which are terrible! Pains that
throb in your temples with strokes as even and as regular as the ticking
of that clock, till they drive you mad!"

He ceased speaking; the gloomy gaze of his deep-set eyes fell upon the
trophy hanging on the wall. Then he continued:

"These stupid worries, these ridiculous sufferings, if one endures them
too long, it simply means that one is a coward."

And he felt the butt of the revolver which he always carried in his
pocket.

Madame Nanteuil listened to him serenely, with that gentle determination
not to know anything, which had been her one talent in life.

"Another dreadful thing," she observed, "is to decide what to have to
eat. Félicie is sick of everything. There's no knowing what to get for
her."

After that, the flagging conversation languished, drawn out into