"Hate and kill, kill and hate!" you say. But I
thought He told you to love one another . . .' Then
he drifted back again into his dreams.

cDo not anger yourselves,5 begged Mere Melanie,
che is drunk, mes enfants, that is why he raves.'

And because they could see that Eusebe was drunk,
they humoured her, shrugging and taking no notice.

Anatole Kahn was alone in his office. It was
midnight, yet his desk was still littered with papers, for
just lately he had slept very badly indeed — too many
thoughts would he have in his head, and those
thoughts were not always by any means pleasant.
Business was staggering from blow upon blow. No
one spent because no one would part with their
money, so the stock he had purchased just prior to the
war seemed likely to become shop-soiled in his win-
dows. And not only this, but the villa was unsold,
while its neighbour remained scarcely more than
foundations. At the first crack of doom the young
men from the frontier had been snatched away with-
out adequate notice, nor had others been sent to
continue the work; not the slightest effort had been
made to replace them. The contractor had remarked:
'C'est la guerre, monsieur.' After which he had turned
a deaf ear to all protests. For the matter of that
Kahn's own men had gone; he now possessed neither
joiner nor salesman.
But even before the declaration of war, the season
had fallen far short of expectations, and the usual
handful of artists who had come to paint the most
picturesque parts of the town, had left almost as soon
as the men from the frontier. They had packed up
their brushes and canvases and easels with a speed
that Kahn had found really astounding — some had
even forgotten to pay their bills, so keen had they been
35°