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Then I came to the question which had seemed to me most puzzling. "Will you tell me why you bothered about Blanche Stroeve at all?" He did not answer for so long that I nearly repeated it. "How do I know?" he said at last. "She couldn't bear the sight of me. It amused me." "I see." He gave a sudden flash of anger. "Damn it all, I wanted her."
I was interested to learn that it was the same as that at which Strickland and I had drunk absinthe when I had gone over to Paris to see him. The fact that he had never changed suggested a sluggishness of habit which seemed to me characteristic. "There he is," said Stroeve, as we reached the cafe. Though it was October, the evening was warm, and the tables on the pavement were crowded.
We went one day to the picture-dealer in whose shop Stroeve thought he could show me at least two or three of Strickland's pictures, but when we arrived were told that Strickland himself had taken them away. The dealer did not know why. "But don't imagine to yourself that I make myself bad blood on that account. I took them to oblige Monsieur Stroeve, and I said I would sell them if I could.
I amused myself by thinking that in his choice of books he showed pleasantly the irreconcilable sides of his fantastic nature. It was singular to notice that even in the weak state of his body he had no thought for its comfort. Stroeve liked his ease, and in his studio were a couple of heavily upholstered arm-chairs and a large divan.
It was obvious that to him Blanche Stroeve was only a unit to be added to the statistical list of attempted suicides in the city of Paris during the current year. He was busy, and could waste no more time on us. He told us that if we came at a certain hour next day, should Blanche be better, it might be possible for her husband to see her. I scarcely know how we got through that day.
I quickly found myself a tiny apartment on the fifth floor of a house in the Rue des Dames, and for a couple of hundred francs bought at a second-hand dealer's enough furniture to make it habitable. I arranged with the concierge to make my coffee in the morning and to keep the place clean. Then I went to see my friend Dirk Stroeve.
"What have you been having?" I asked. "Nothing." "For how long?" cried Stroeve. "Do you mean to say you've had nothing to eat or drink for two days? It's horrible." "I've had water." His eyes dwelt for a moment on a large can within reach of an outstretched arm. "I'll go immediately," said Stroeve. "Is there anything you fancy?"
"Do you really care a twopenny damn if Blanche Stroeve is alive or dead?" I thought over his question, for I wanted to answer it truthfully, at all events to my soul. "It may be a lack of sympathy in myself if it does not make any great difference to me that she is dead. Life had a great deal to offer her.
I dimly perceived a bed in the corner, and I wondered whether the light would disclose lying on it a dead body. "Haven't you got a match, you fool?" Strickland's voice, coming out of the darkness, harshly, made me start. Stroeve cried out. "Oh, my God, I thought you were dead." I struck a match, and looked about for a candle.
"As a mere matter of curiosity I wish you'd tell me, have you felt the smallest twinge of remorse for Blanche Stroeve's death?" I watched his face for some change of expression, but it remained impassive. "Why should I?" he asked. "Let me put the facts before you. You were dying, and Dirk Stroeve took you into his own house. He nursed you like a mother.
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