To think that he could not
join that expedition! . . . He believed that he had lost the opportunity
to paint his masterpiece.
Just outside of his home, he met Tchernoff. Don Marcelo was in high good
humor. The certainty that he was soon going to see his son filled him
with boyish good spirits. He almost embraced the Russian in spite of his
slovenly aspect, his tragic beard and his enormous hat which made every
one turn to look after him.
At the end of the avenue, the Arc de Triomphe stood forth against a sky
crimsoned by the sunset. A red cloud was floating around the monument,
reflected on its whiteness with purpling palpitations.
Desnoyers recalled the four horsemen, and all that Argensola had told
him before presenting him to the Russian.
"Blood!" shouted jubilantly. "All the sky seems to be blood-red. . . .
It is the apocalyptic beast who has received his death-wound. Soon we
shall see him die."
Tchernoff smiled, too, but his was a melancholy smile.
"No; the beast does not die. It is the eternal companion of man. It
hides, spouting blood, forty . . . sixty . . . a hundred years, but
eventually it reappears. All that we can hope is that its wound may be
long and deep, that it may remain hidden so long that the generation
that now remembers it may never see it again."
CHAPTER III
WAR
Don Marcelo was climbing up a mountain covered with woods.
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