His Masterpiece: Chapter 4

Chapter 4

SIX weeks later, Claude was painting one morning amidst a flood of
sunshine that streamed through the large window of his studio.
Constant rain had made the middle of August very dull, but his courage
for work returned with the blue sky. His great picture did not make
much progress, albeit he worked at it throughout long, silent
mornings, like the obstinate, pugnacious fellow he was.

All at once there came a knock at his door. He thought that Madame
Joseph, the doorkeeper, was bringing up his lunch, and as the key was
always in the door, he simply called: 'Come in!'

The door had opened; there was a slight rustle, and then all became
still. He went on painting without even turning his head. But the
quivering silence, and the consciousness of some vague gentle
breathing near him, at last made him fidgety. He looked up, and felt
amazed; a woman stood there clad in a light gown, her features
half-hidden by a white veil, and he did not know her, and she was
carrying a bunch of roses, which completed his bewilderment.

All at once he recognised her.

'You, mademoiselle? Well, I certainly didn't expect you!'

It was Christine. He had been unable to restrain that somewhat
unamiable exclamation, which was a cry from the heart itself. At first
he had certainly thought of her; then, as the days went by for nearly
a couple of months without sign of life from her, she had become for
him merely a fleeting, regretted vision, a charming silhouette which
had melted away in space, and would never be seen again.

'Yes, monsieur, it's I. I wished to come. I thought it was wrong not
to come and thank you--'

She blushed and stammered, at a loss for words. She was out of breath,
no doubt through climbing the stairs, for her heart was beating fast.
What! was this long-debated visit out of place after all? It had ended
by seeming quite natural to her. The worst was that, in passing along
the quay, she had bought that bunch of roses with the delicate
intention of thereby showing her gratitude to the young fellow, and
the flowers now dreadfully embarrassed her. How was she to give them
to him? What would he think of her? The impropriety of the whole
proceeding had only struck her as she opened the door.

But Claude, more embarrassed still, resorted to exaggerated
politeness. He had thrown aside his palette and was turning the studio
upside down in order to clear a chair.

'Pray be seated, mademoiselle. This is really a surprise. You are too
kind.'

Once seated, Christine recovered her equanimity. He looked so droll
with his wild sweeping gestures, and she felt so conscious of his
shyness that she began to smile, and bravely held out the bunch of
roses.

'Look here; I wished to show you that I am not ungrateful.'

At first he said nothing, but stood staring at her, thunderstruck.
When he saw, though, that she was not making fun of him, he shook both
her hands, with almost sufficient energy to dislocate them. Then he at
once put the flowers in his water-jug, repeating:

'Ah! now you are a good fellow, you really are. This is the first time
I pay that compliment to a woman, honour bright.'

He came back to her, and, looking straight into her eyes, he asked:

'Then you have not altogether forgotten me?'

'You see that I have not,' she replied, laughing.

'Why, then, did you wait two months before coming to see me?'

Again she blushed. The falsehood she was about to tell revived her
embarrassment for a moment.

'But you know that I am not my own mistress,' she said. 'Oh, Madame
Vanzade is very kind to me, only she is a great invalid, and never
leaves the house. But she grew anxious as to my health and compelled
me to go out to breathe a little fresh air.'

She did not allude to the shame which she had felt during the first
few days after her adventure on the Quai de Bourbon. Finding herself
in safety, beneath the old lady's roof, the recollection of the night
she had spent in Claude's room had filled her with remorse; but she
fancied at last that she had succeeded in dismissing the matter from
her mind. It was no longer anything but a bad dream, which grew more
indistinct each day. Then, how it was she could not tell, but amidst
the profound quietude of her existence, the image of that young man
who had befriended her had returned to her once more, becoming more
and more precise, till at last it occupied her daily thoughts. Why
should she forget him? She had nothing to reproach him with; on the
contrary, she felt she was his debtor. The thought of seeing him
again, dismissed at first, struggled against later on, at last became
an all-absorbing craving. Each evening the temptation to go and see
him came strong upon her in the solitude of her own room. She
experienced an uncomfortable irritating feeling, a vague desire which
she could not define, and only calmed down somewhat on ascribing this
troubled state of mind to a wish to evince her gratitude. She was so
utterly alone, she felt so stifled in that sleepy abode, the
exuberance of youth seethed so strongly within her, her heart craved
so desperately for friendship!

'So I took advantage of my first day out,' she continued. 'And
besides, the weather was so nice this morning after all the dull
rain.'

Claude, feeling very happy and standing before her, also confessed
himself, but _he_ had nothing to hide.

'For my part,' said he, 'I dared not think of you any more. You are
like one of the fairies of the story-books, who spring from the floor
and disappear into the walls at the very moment one least expects it;
aren't you now? I said to myself, "It's all over: it was perhaps only
in my fancy that I saw her come to this studio." Yet here you are.
Well, I am pleased at it, very pleased indeed.'

Smiling, but embarrassed, Christine averted her head, pretending to
look around her. But her smile soon died away. The ferocious-looking
paintings which she again beheld, the glaring sketches of the South,
the terrible anatomical accuracy of the studies from the nude, all
chilled her as on the first occasion. She became really afraid again,
and she said gravely, in an altered voice:

'I am disturbing you; I am going.'

'Oh! not at all, not at all,' exclaimed Claude, preventing her from
rising. 'It does me good to have a talk with you, for I was working
myself to death. Oh! that confounded picture; it's killing me as it
is.'

Thereupon Christine, lifting her eyes, looked at the large picture,
the canvas that had been turned to the wall on the previous occasion,
and which she had vainly wished to see.

The background--the dark glade pierced by a flood of sunlight--was
still only broadly brushed in. But the two little wrestlers--the fair
one and the dark--almost finished by now, showed clearly in the light.
In the foreground, the gentleman in the velveteen jacket, three times
begun afresh, had now been left in distress. The painter was more
particularly working at the principal figure, the woman lying on the
grass. He had not touched the head again. He was battling with the
body, changing his model every week, so despondent at being unable to
satisfy himself that for a couple of days he had been trying to
improve the figure from imagination, without recourse to nature,
although he boasted that he never invented.

Christine at once recognised herself. Yes, that nude girl sprawling on
the grass, one arm behind her head, smiling with lowered eyelids, was
herself, for she had her features. The idea absolutely revolted her,
and she was wounded too by the wildness of the painting, so brutal
indeed that she considered herself abominably insulted. She did not
understand that kind of art; she thought it execrable, and felt a
hatred against it, the instinctive hatred of an enemy. She rose at
last, and curtly repeated, 'I must be going.'

Claude watched her attentively, both grieved and surprised by her
sudden change of manner.

'Going already?'

'Yes, they are waiting for me. Good-bye.'

And she had already reached the door before he could take her hand,
and venture to ask her:

'When shall I see you again?'

She allowed her hand to remain in his. For a moment she seemed to
hesitate.

'I don't know. I am so busy.'

Then she withdrew her hand and went off, hastily, saying: 'One of
these days, when I can. Good-bye.'

Claude remained stock-still on the threshold. He wondered what had
come over her again to cause her sudden coolness, her covert
irritation. He closed the door, and walked about, with dangling arms,
and without understanding, seeking vainly for the phrase, the gesture
that could have offended her. And he in his turn became angry, and
launched an oath into space, with a terrific shrug of the shoulders,
as if to rid himself of this silly worry. Did a man ever understand
women? However, the sight of the roses, overlapping the water-jug,
pacified him; they smelt so sweet. Their scent pervaded the whole
studio, and silently he resumed his work amidst the perfume.

Two more months passed by. During the earlier days Claude, at the
slightest stir of a morning, when Madame Joseph brought him up his
breakfast or his letters, quickly turned his head, and could not
control a gesture of disappointment. He no longer went out until after
four, and the doorkeeper having told him one evening, on his return
home, that a young person had called to see him at about five, he had
only grown calm on ascertaining that the visitor was merely a model,
Zoe Piedefer. Then, as the days went by, he was seized with a furious
fit of work, becoming unapproachable to every one, indulging in such
violent theories that even his friends did not venture to contradict
him. He swept the world from his path with one gesture; there was no
longer to be anything but painting left. One might murder one's
parents, comrades, and women especially, and it would all be a good
riddance. After this terrible fever he fell into abominable
despondency, spending a week of impotence and doubt, a whole week of
torture, during which he fancied himself struck silly. But he was
getting over it, he had resumed his usual life, his resigned solitary
struggle with his great picture, when one foggy morning, towards the
end of October, he started and hastily set his palette aside. There
had been no knock, but he had just recognised the footfall coming up
the stairs. He opened the door and she walked in. She had come at
last.

Christine that day wore a large cloak of grey material which enveloped
her from head to foot. Her little velvet hat was dark, and the fog
outside had pearled her black lace veil. But he thought her looking
very cheerful, with the first slight shiver of winter upon her. She at
once began to make excuses for having so long delayed her return. She
smiled at him in her pretty candid manner, confessed that she had
hesitated, and that she had almost made up her mind to come no more.
Yes, she had her own opinions about things, which she felt sure he
understood. As it happened, he did not understand at all--he had no
wish to understand, seeing that she was there. It was quite sufficient
that she was not vexed with him, that she would consent to look in now
and then like a chum. There were no explanations; they kept their
respective torments and the struggles of recent times to themselves.
For nearly an hour they chatted together right pleasantly, with
nothing hidden nor antagonistic remaining between them; it was as if
an understanding had been arrived at, unknown to themselves, and while
they were far apart. She did not even appear to notice the sketches
and studies on the walls. For a moment she looked fixedly at the large
picture, at the figure of the woman lying on the grass under the
blazing golden sun. No, it was not like herself, that girl had neither
her face nor her body. How silly to have fancied that such a horrid
mess of colour was herself! And her friendship for the young fellow

was heightened by a touch of pity; he could not even convey a
likeness. When she went off, it was she who on the threshold cordially
held out her hand.

'You know, I shall come back again--'

'Yes, in two months' time.'

'No, next week. You'll see, next Thursday.'

On the Thursday she punctually returned, and after that she did not
miss a week. At first she had no particular day for calling, simply
taking advantage of her opportunities; but subsequently she selected
Monday, the day allowed her by Madame Vanzade in order that she might
have a walk in the fresh, open air of the Bois de Boulogne. She had to
be back home by eleven, and she walked the whole way very quickly,
coming in all aglow from the run, for it was a long stretch from Passy
to the Quai de Bourbon. During four winter months, from October to
February, she came in this fashion, now in drenching rain, now among
the mists from the Seine, now in the pale sunlight that threw a little
warmth over the quays. Indeed, after the first month, she at times
arrived unexpectedly, taking advantage of some errand in town to look
in, and then she could only stay for a couple of minutes; they had
barely had time enough to say 'How do you do?' when she was already
scampering down the stairs again, exclaiming 'Good-bye.'

And now Claude learned to know Christine. With his everlasting
mistrust of woman a suspicion had remained to him, the suspicion of
some love adventure in the provinces; but the girl's soft eyes and
bright laughter had carried all before them; he felt that she was as
innocent as a big child. As soon as she arrived, quite unembarrassed,
feeling fully at her ease, as with a friend, she began to indulge in a
ceaseless flow of chatter. She had told him a score of times about her
childhood at Clermont, and she constantly reverted to it. On the
evening that her father, Captain Hallegrain, had suddenly died, she
and her mother had been to church. She perfectly remembered their
return home and the horrible night that had followed; the captain,
very stout and muscular, lying stretched on a mattress, with his lower
jaw protruding to such a degree that in her girlish memory she could
not picture him otherwise. She also had that same jaw, and when her
mother had not known how to master her, she had often cried: 'Ah, my
girl, you'll eat your heart's blood out like your father.' Poor
mother! how she, Christine, had worried her with her love of
horseplay, with her mad turbulent fits. As far back as she could
remember, she pictured her mother ever seated at the same window,
quietly painting fans, a slim little woman with very soft eyes, the
only thing she had inherited of her. When people wanted to please her
mother they told her, 'she has got your eyes.' And then she smiled,
happy in the thought of having contributed at least that touch of
sweetness to her daughter's features. After the death of her husband,
she had worked so late as to endanger her eyesight. But how else could
she have lived? Her widow's pension--five hundred francs per annum
--barely sufficed for the needs of her child. For five years Christine
had seen her mother grow thinner and paler, wasting away a little bit
each day until she became a mere shadow. And now she felt remorseful
at not having been more obedient, at having driven her mother to
despair by lack of application. She had begun each week with
magnificent intentions, promising that she would soon help her to earn
money; but her arms and legs got the fidgets, in spite of her efforts;
the moment she became quiet she fell ill. Then one morning her mother
had been unable to get up, and had died; her voice too weak to make
itself heard, her eyes full of big tears. Ever did Christine behold
her thus dead, with her weeping eyes wide open and fixed on her.

At other times, Christine, when questioned by Claude about Clermont,
forgot those sorrows to recall more cheerful memories. She laughed
gaily at the idea of their encampment, as she called it, in the Rue de
l'Eclache; she born in Strasburg, her father a Gascon, her mother a
Parisian, and all three thrown into that nook of Auvergne, which they
detested. The Rue de l'Eclache, sloping down to the Botanical Gardens,
was narrow and dank, gloomy, like a vault. Not a shop, never a
passer-by--nothing but melancholy frontages, with shutters always
closed. At the back, however, their windows, overlooking some
courtyards, were turned to the full sunlight. The dining-room opened
even on to a spacious balcony, a kind of wooden gallery, whose arcades
were hung with a giant wistaria which almost smothered them with
foliage. And the girl had grown up there, at first near her invalid
father, then cloistered, as it were, with her mother, whom the least
exertion exhausted. She had remained so complete a stranger to the
town and its neighbourhood, that Claude and herself burst into
laughter when she met his inquiries with the constant answer, 'I don't
know.' The mountains? Yes, there were mountains on one side, they
could be seen at the end of the streets; while on the other side of
the town, after passing along other streets, there were flat fields
stretching far away; but she never went there, the distance was too
great. The only height she remembered was the Puy de Dome, rounded off
at the summit like a hump. In the town itself she could have found her
way to the cathedral blindfold; one had to turn round by the Place de
Jaude and take the Rue des Gras; but more than that she could not tell
him; the rest of the town was an entanglement, a maze of sloping lanes
and boulevards; a town of black lava ever dipping downward, where the
rain of the thunderstorms swept by torrentially amidst formidable
flashes of lightning. Oh! those storms; she still shuddered to think
of them. Just opposite her room, above the roofs, the lightning
conductor of the museum was always on fire. In the sitting-room she
had her own window--a deep recess as big as a room itself--where her
work-table and personal nick-nacks stood. It was there that her mother
had taught her to read; it was there that, later on, she had fallen
asleep while listening to her masters, so greatly did the fatigue of
learning daze her. And now she made fun of her own ignorance; she was
a well-educated young lady, and no mistake, unable even to repeat the
names of the Kings of France, with the dates of their accessions; a
famous musician too, who had never got further than that elementary
pianoforte exercise, 'The little boats'; a prodigy in water-colour
painting, who scamped her trees because foliage was too difficult to
imitate. Then she skipped, without any transition, to the fifteen
months she had spent at the Convent of the Visitation after her
mother's death--a large convent, outside the town, with magnificent
gardens. There was no end to her stories about the good sisters, their
jealousies, their foolish doings, their simplicity, that made one
start. She was to have taken the veil, but she felt stifled the moment
she entered a church. It had seemed to be all over with her, when the
Superior, by whom she was treated with great affection, diverted her
from the cloister by procuring her that situation at Madame Vanzade's.
She had not yet got over the surprise. How had Mother des Saints Anges
been able to read her mind so clearly? For, in fact, since she had
been living in Paris she had dropped into complete indifference about
religion.

When all the reminiscences of Clermont were exhausted, Claude wanted
to hear about her life at Madame Vanzade's, and each week she gave him
fresh particulars. The life led in the little house at Passy, silent
and shut off from the outer world, was a very regular one, with no
more noise about it than the faint tic-tac of an old-fashioned
timepiece. Two antiquated domestics, a cook and a manservant, who had
been with the family for forty years, alone glided in their slippers
about the deserted rooms, like a couple of ghosts. Now and then, at
very long intervals, there came a visitor: some octogenarian general,
so desiccated, so slight of build that he scarcely pressed on the
carpet. The house was also the home of shadows; the sun filtered with
the mere gleam of a night light through the Venetian blinds. Since
madame had become paralysed in the knees and stone blind, so that she
no longer left her room, she had had no other recreation than that of
listening to the reading of religious books. Ah! those endless
readings, how they weighed upon the girl at times! If she had only
known a trade, how gladly she would have cut out dresses, concocted
bonnets, or goffered the petals of artificial flowers. And to think
that she was capable of nothing, when she had been taught everything,
and that there was only enough stuff in her to make a salaried drudge,
a semi-domestic! She suffered horribly, too, in that stiff, lonely
dwelling which smelt of the tomb. She was seized once more with the
vertigo of her childhood, as when she had striven to compel herself to
work, in order to please her mother; her blood rebelled; she would
have liked to shout and jump about, in her desire for life. But madame
treated her so gently, sending her away from her room, and ordering
her to take long walks, that she felt full of remoras when, on her
return to the Quai de Bourbon, she was obliged to tell a falsehood; to
talk of the Bois de Boulogne or invent some ceremony at church where
she now never set foot. Madame seemed to take to her more and more
every day; there were constant presents, now a silk dress, now a tiny
gold watch, even some underlinen. She herself was very fond of Madame
Vanzade; she had wept one day when the latter had called her daughter;
she had sworn never to leave her, such was her heart-felt pity at
seeing her so old and helpless.

'Well,' said Claude one morning, 'you'll be rewarded; she'll leave you
her money.'

Christine looked astonished. 'Do you think so? It is said that she is
worth three millions of francs. No, no, I have never dreamt of such a
thing, and I won't. What would become of me?'

Claude had averted his head, and hastily replied, 'Well, you'd become
rich, that's all. But no doubt she'll first of all marry you off--'

On hearing this, Christine could hold out no longer, but burst into
laughter. 'To one of her old friends, eh? perhaps the general who has
a silver chin. What a good joke!'

So far they had gone no further than chumming like old friends. He was
almost as new to life as she, having had nothing but chance
adventures, and living in an ideal world of his own, fanciful amid
romantic amours. To see each other in secret like this, from pure
friendship, without anything more tender passing between them than a
cordial shake of the hand at her arrival, and another one when she
left, seemed to them quite natural. Still for her part she scented
that he was shy, and at times she looked at him fixedly, with the
wondering perturbation of unconscious passion. But as yet nothing
ardent or agitating spoilt the pleasure they felt in being together.
Their hands remained cool; they spoke cheerfully on all subjects; they
sometimes argued like friends, who feel sure they will not fall out.
Only, this friendship grew so keen that they could no longer live
without seeing one another.

The moment Christine came, Claude took the key from outside the door.
She herself insisted upon this, lest somebody might disturb them.
After a few visits she had taken absolute possession of the studio.
She seemed to be at home there. She was tormented by a desire to make
the place a little more tidy, for such disorder worried her and made
her uncomfortable. But it was not an easy matter. The painter had
strictly forbidden Madame Joseph to sweep up things, lest the dust
should get on the fresh paint. So, on the first occasions when his
companion attempted to clean up a bit, he watched her with anxious
entreating eyes. What was the good of changing the place of things?
Didn't it suffice to have them at hand? However, she exhibited such
gay determination, she seemed so happy at playing the housewife, that
he let her have her own way at last. And now, the moment she had
arrived and taken off her gloves, she pinned up her dress to avoid
soiling it, and set the big studio in order in the twinkling of an
eye. There was no longer a pile of cinders before the stove; the
screen hid the bedstead and the washstand; the couch was brushed, the
wardrobe polished; the deal table was cleared of the crockery, and had
not a stain of paint; and above the chairs, which were symmetrically
arranged, and the spanned easels propped against the walls, the big
cuckoo clock, with full-blown pink flowers on its dial, seemed to tick
more sonorously. Altogether it was magnificent; one would not have
recognised the place. He, stupefied, watched her trotting to and fro,
twisting about and singing as she went. Was this then the lazybones
who had such dreadful headaches at the least bit of work? But she
laughed; at headwork, yes; but exertion with her hands and feet did
her good, seemed to straighten her like a young sapling. She
confessed, even as she would have confessed some depraved taste, her
liking for lowly household cares; a liking which had greatly worried
her mother, whose educational ideal consisted of accomplishments, and
who would have made her a governess with soft hands, touching nothing
vulgar. How Christine had been chided indeed whenever she was caught,
as a little girl, sweeping, dusting, and playing delightedly at being
cook! Even nowadays, if she had been able to indulge in a bout with
the dust at Madame Vanzade's, she would have felt less bored. But what
would they have said to that? She would no longer have been considered
a lady. And so she came to satisfy her longings at the Quai de
Bourbon, panting with the exercise, all aglow, her eyes glistening
with a woman's delight at biting into forbidden fruit.

Claude by this time grew conscious of having a woman's care around
him. In order to make her sit down and chat quietly, he would ask her
now and then to sew a torn cuff or coat-tail. She herself had offered
to look over his linen; but it was no longer with the ardour of a
housewife, eager to be up and doing. First of all, she hardly knew how
to work; she held her needle like a girl brought up in contempt of
sewing. Besides, the enforced quiescence and the attention that had to
be given to such work, the small stitches which had to be looked to
one by one, exasperated her. Thus the studio was bright with
cleanliness like a drawing-room, but Claude himself remained in rags,
and they both joked about it, thinking it great fun.

How happy were those months that they spent together, those four
months of frost and rain whiled away in the studio, where the red-hot
stove roared like an organ-pipe! The winter seemed to isolate them
from the world still more. When the snow covered the adjacent roofs,
when the sparrows fluttered against the window, they smiled at feeling
warm and cosy, at being lost, as it were, amidst the great silent
city. But they did not always confine themselves to that one little
nook, for she allowed him at last to see her home. For a long while
she had insisted upon going away by herself, feeling ashamed of being
seen in the streets on a man's arm. Then, one day when the rain fell
all of a sudden, she was obliged to let him come downstairs with an
umbrella. The rain having ceased almost immediately, she sent him back
when they reached the other side of the Pont Louis-Philippe. They only
remained a few moments beside the parapet, looking at the Mail, and
happy at being together in the open air. Down below, large barges,
moored against the quay, and full of apples, were ranged four rows
deep, so close together that the planks thrown across them made a
continuous path for the women and children running to and fro. They
were amused by the sight of all that fruit, those enormous piles
littering the banks, the round baskets which were carried hither and
thither, while a strong odour, suggestive of cider in fermentation,
mingled with the moist gusts from the river.

A week later, when the sun again showed itself, and Claude extolled
the solitude of the quays round the Isle Saint Louis, Christine
consented to take a walk. They strolled up the Quai de Bourbon and the
Quai d'Anjou, pausing at every few steps and growing interested in the
various scenes of river life; the dredger whose buckets grated against
their chains, the floating wash-house, which resounded with the hubbub
of a quarrel, and the steam cranes busy unloading the lighters. She
did not cease to wonder at one thought which came to her. Was it
possible that yonder Quai des Ormes, so full of life across the
stream, that this Quai Henri IV., with its broad embankment and lower
shore, where bands of children and dogs rolled over in the sand, that
this panorama of an active, densely-populated capital was the same
accursed scene that had appeared to her for a moment in a gory flash
on the night of her arrival? They went round the point of the island,
strolling more leisurely still to enjoy the solitude and tranquillity
which the old historic mansions seem to have implanted there. They
watched the water seething between the wooden piles of the Estacade,
and returned by way of the Quai de Bethune and the Quai d'Orleans,
instinctively drawn closer to each other by the widening of the
stream, keeping elbow to elbow at sight of the vast flow, with their
eyes fixed on the distant Halle aux Vins and the Jardin des Plantes.
In the pale sky, the cupolas of the public buildings assumed a bluish
hue. When they reached the Pont St. Louis, Claude had to point out
Notre-Dame by name, for Christine did not recognise the edifice from
the rear, where it looked like a colossal creature crouching down
between its flying buttresses, which suggested sprawling paws, while
above its long leviathan spine its towers rose like a double head.
Their real find that day, however, was at the western point of the
island, that point like the prow of a ship always riding at anchor,
afloat between two swift currents, in sight of Paris, but ever unable
to get into port. They went down some very steep steps there, and
discovered a solitary bank planted with lofty trees. It was a charming
refuge--a hermitage in the midst of a crowd. Paris was rumbling around
them, on the quays, on the bridges, while they at the water's edge
tasted the delight of being alone, ignored by the whole world. From
that day forth that bank became a little rustic coign of theirs, a
favourite open-air resort, where they took advantage of the sunny
hours, when the great heat of the studio, where the red-hot stove kept
roaring, oppressed them too much, filling their hands with a fever of
which they were afraid.

Nevertheless, Christine had so far objected to be accompanied farther
than the Mail. At the Quai des Ormes she always bade Claude go back,
as if Paris, with her crowds and possible encounters, began at the
long stretch of quays which she had to traverse on her way home. But
Passy was so far off, and she felt so dull at having to go such a
distance alone, that gradually she gave way. She began by allowing
Claude to see her as far as the Hotel de Ville; then as far as the
Pont-Neuf; at last as far as the Tuileries. She forgot the danger;
they walked arm in arm like a young married couple; and that
constantly repeated promenade, that leisurely journey over the
self-same ground by the river side, acquired an infinite charm, full
of a happiness such as could scarcely be surpassed in after-times.
They truly belonged to each other, though they had not erred. It
seemed as if the very soul of the great city, rising from the river,
wrapped them around with all the love that had throbbed behind the
grey stone walls through the long lapse of ages.

Since the nipping colds of December, Christine only came in the
afternoon, and it was about four o'clock, when the sun was sinking,
that Claude escorted her back on his arm. On days when the sky was
clear, they could see the long line of quays stretching away into
space directly they had crossed the Pont Louis-Philippe. From one end
to the other the slanting sun powdered the houses on the right bank
with golden dust, while, on the left, the islets, the buildings, stood
out in a black line against the blazing glory of the sunset. Between
the sombre and the brilliant margin, the spangled river sparkled, cut
in twain every now and then by the long bars of its bridges; the five
arches of the Pont Notre-Dame showing under the single span of the
Pont d'Arcole; then the Pont-au-Change and the Pont-Neuf, beyond each
of whose shadows appeared a luminous patch, a sheet of bluish satiny
water, growing paler here and there with a mirror-like reflection. And
while the dusky outlines on the left terminated in the silhouettes of
the pointed towers of the Palais de Justice, sharply and darkly
defined against the sky, a gentle curve undulated on the right,
stretching away so far that the Pavillon de Flore, who stood forth
like a citadel at the curve's extreme end, seemed a fairy castle,
bluey, dreamlike and vague, amidst the rosy mist on the horizon. But
Claude and Christine, with the sunlight streaming on them, athwart the
leafless plane trees, turned away from the dazzlement, preferring to
gaze at certain spots, one above all--a block of old houses just above
the Mail. Below, there was a series of one-storied tenements, little
huckster and fishing-tackle shops, with flat terrace roofs, ornamented
with laurel and Virginia creeper. And in the rear rose loftier, but
decrepit, dwellings, with linen hung out to dry at their windows, a
collection of fantastic structures, a confused mass of woodwork and
masonry, overtoppling walls, and hanging gardens, in which coloured
glass balls shone out like stars. They walked on, leaving behind them
the big barracks and the Hotel de Ville, and feeling much more
interest in the Cite which appeared across the river, pent between
lofty smooth embankments rising from the water. Above the darkened
houses rose the towers of Notre-Dame, as resplendent as if they had
been newly gilt. Then the second-hand bookstalls began to invade the
quays. Down below a lighter full of charcoal struggled against the
strong current beneath an arch of the Pont Notre-Dame. And then, on
the days when the flower market was held, they stopped, despite the
inclement weather, to inhale the scent of the first violets and the
early gillyflowers. On their left a long stretch of bank now became
visible; beyond the pepper-caster turrets of the Palais de Justice,
the small, murky tenements of the Quai de l'Horloge showed as far as
the clump of trees midway across the Pont-Neuf; then, as they went
farther on, other quays emerged from the mist, in the far distance:
the Quai Voltaire, the Quai Malaquais, the dome of the Institute of
France, the square pile of the Mint, a long grey line of frontages of
which they could not even distinguish the windows, a promontory of
roofs, which, with their stacks of chimney-pots, looked like some
rugged cliff, dipping down into a phosphorescent sea. In front,
however, the Pavillon de Flore lost its dreamy aspect, and became
solidified in the final sun blaze. Then right and left, on either bank
of the river, came the long vistas of the Boulevard de Sebastopol and
the Boulevard du Palais; the handsome new buildings of the Quai de la
Megisserie, with the new Prefecture of Police across the water; and
the old Pont-Neuf, with its statue of Henri IV. looking like a splash
of ink. The Louvre, the Tuileries followed, and beyond Grenelle there
was a far-stretching panorama of the slopes of Sevres, the country
steeped in a stream of sun rays. Claude never went farther. Christine
always made him stop just before they reached the Pont Royal, near the
fine trees beside Vigier's swimming baths; and when they turned round
to shake hands once more in the golden sunset now flushing into
crimson, they looked back and, on the horizon, espied the Isle Saint
Louis, whence they had come, the indistinct distance of the city upon
which night was already descending from the slate-hued eastern sky.

Ah! what splendid sunsets they beheld during those weekly strolls. The
sun accompanied them, as it were, amid the throbbing gaiety of the
quays, the river life, the dancing ripples of the currents; amid the
attractions of the shops, as warm as conservatories, the flowers sold
by the seed merchants, and the noisy cages of the bird fanciers; amid
all the din of sound and wealth of colour which ever make a city's
waterside its youthful part. As they proceeded, the ardent blaze of
the western sky turned to purple on their left, above the dark line of
houses, and the orb of day seemed to wait for them, falling gradually
lower, slowly rolling towards the distant roofs when once they had
passed the Pont Notre-Dame in front of the widening stream. In no
ancient forest, on no mountain road, beyond no grassy plain will there
ever be such triumphal sunsets as behind the cupola of the Institute.
It is there one sees Paris retiring to rest in all her glory. At each
of their walks the aspect of the conflagration changed; fresh furnaces
added their glow to the crown of flames. One evening, when a shower
had surprised them, the sun, showing behind the downpour, lit up the
whole rain cloud, and upon their heads there fell a spray of glowing
water, irisated with pink and azure. On the days when the sky was
clear, however, the sun, like a fiery ball, descended majestically in
an unruffled sapphire lake; for a moment the black cupola of the
Institute seemed to cut away part of it and make it look like the
waning moon; then the globe assumed a violet tinge and at last became
submerged in the lake, which had turned blood-red. Already, in
February, the planet described a wider curve, and fell straight into
the Seine, which seemed to seethe on the horizon as at the contact of
red-hot iron. However, the grander scenes, the vast fairy pictures of
space only blazed on cloudy evenings. Then, according to the whim of
the wind, there were seas of sulphur splashing against coral reefs;
there were palaces and towers, marvels of architecture, piled upon one
another, burning and crumbling, and throwing torrents of lava from
their many gaps; or else the orb which had disappeared, hidden by a
veil of clouds, suddenly transpierced that veil with such a press of
light that shafts of sparks shot forth from one horizon to the other,
showing as plainly as a volley of golden arrows. And then the twilight
fell, and they said good-bye to each other, while their eyes were
still full of the final dazzlement. They felt that triumphal Paris was
the accomplice of the joy which they could not exhaust, the joy of
ever resuming together that walk beside the old stone parapets.

One day, however, there happened what Claude had always secretly
feared. Christine no longer seemed to believe in the possibility of
meeting anybody who knew her. In fact, was there such a person? She
would always pass along like this, remaining altogether unknown. He,
however, thought of his own friends, and at times felt a kind of
tremor when he fancied he recognised in the distance the back of some
acquaintance. He was troubled by a feeling of delicacy; the idea that
somebody might stare at the girl, approach them, and perhaps begin to
joke, gave him intolerable worry. And that very evening, as she was
close beside him on his arm, and they were approaching the Pont des
Arts, he fell upon Sandoz and Dubuche, who were coming down the steps
of the bridge. It was impossible to avoid them, they were almost face
to face; besides, his friends must have seen him, for they smiled.
Claude, very pale, kept advancing, and he thought it all up on seeing
Dubuche take a step towards him; but Sandoz was already holding the
architect back, and leading him away. They passed on with an
indifferent air and disappeared into the courtyard of the Louvre
without as much as turning round. They had both just recognised the
original of the crayon sketch, which the painter hid away with all the
jealousy of a lover. Christine, who was chattering, had noticed
nothing. Claude, with his heart throbbing, answered her in
monosyllables, moved to tears, brimming over with gratitude to his old
chums for their discreet behaviour.

A few days later, however, he had another shock. He did not expect
Christine, and had therefore made an appointment with Sandoz. Then, as
she had run up to spend an hour--it was one of those surprises that
delighted them--they had just withdrawn the key, as usual, when there
came a familiar knock with the fist on the door. Claude at once
recognised the rap, and felt so upset at the mishap that he overturned
a chair. After that it was impossible to pretend to be out. But
Christine turned so pale, and implored him with such a wild gesture,
that he remained rooted to the spot, holding his breath. The knocks
continued, and a voice called, 'Claude, Claude!' He still remained
quite still, debating with himself, however, with ashen lips and
downcast eyes. Deep silence reigned, and then footsteps were heard,
making the stairs creak as they went down. Claude's breast heaved with
intense sadness; he felt it bursting with remorse at the sound of each
retreating step, as if he had denied the friendship of his whole
youth.

However, one afternoon there came another knock, and Claude had only
just time to whisper despairingly, 'The key has been left in the
door.'

In fact, Christine had forgotten to take it out. She became quite
scared and darted behind the screen, with her handkerchief over her
mouth to stifle the sound of her breathing.

The knocks became louder, there was a burst of laughter, and the
painter had to reply, 'Come in.'

He felt more uncomfortable still when he saw Jory, who gallantly
ushered in Irma Becot, whose acquaintance he had made through
Fagerolles, and who was flinging her youth about the Paris studios.

'She insisted upon seeing your studio, so I brought her,' explained
the journalist.

The girl, however, without waiting, was already walking about and
making remarks, with perfect freedom of manner. 'Oh! how funny it is
here. And what funny painting. Come, there's a good fellow, show me
everything. I want to see everything.'

Claude, apprehensively anxious, was afraid that she might push the
screen aside. He pictured Christine behind it, and felt distracted
already at what she might hear.

'You know what she has come to ask of you?' resumed Jory cheerfully.
'What, don't you remember? You promised that she might pose for
something. And she'll do so if you like.'

'Of course I will,' said Irma.

'The fact is,' replied Claude, in an embarrassed tone, 'my picture
here will take up all my time till the Salon. I have a figure in it
that gives me a deal of trouble. It's impossible to perfect it with
those confounded models.'

Irma had stationed herself in front of the picture, and looked at it
with a knowing air. 'Oh! I see,' she said, 'that woman in the grass,
eh? Do you think I could be of any use to you?'

Jory flared up in a moment, warmly approving the idea, but Claude with
the greatest energy replied, 'No, no madame wouldn't suit. She is not
at all what I want for this picture; not at all.'

Then he went on stammering excuses. He would be only too pleased later
on, but just now he was afraid that another model would quite complete
his confusion over that picture; and Irma responded by shrugging her
shoulders, and looking at him with an air of smiling contempt.

Jory, however, now began to chat about their friends. Why had not
Claude come to Sandoz's on the previous Thursday? One never saw him
now. Dubuche asserted all sorts of things about him. There had been a
row between Fagerolles and Mahoudeau on the subject whether evening
dress was a thing to be reproduced in sculpture. Then on the previous
Sunday Gagniere had returned home from a Wagner concert with a black
eye. He, Jory, had nearly had a duel at the Cafe Baudequin on account
of one of his last articles in 'The Drummer.' The fact was he was
giving it hot to the twopenny-halfpenny painters, the men with the
usurped reputations! The campaign against the hanging committee of the
Salon was making a deuce of a row; not a shred would be left of those
guardians of the ideal, who wanted to prevent nature from entering
their show.

Claude listened to him with impatient irritation. He had taken up his
palette and was shuffling about in front of his picture. The other one
understood at last.

'You want to work, I see; all right, we'll leave you.'

Irma, however, still stared at the painter, with her vague smile,
astonished at the stupidity of this simpleton, who did not seem to
appreciate her, and seized despite herself with a whim to please him.
His studio was ugly, and he himself wasn't handsome; but why should he
put on such bugbear airs? She chaffed him for a moment, and on going
off again offered to sit for him, emphasising her offer by warmly
pressing his hand.

'Whenever you like,' were her parting words.

They had gone at last, and Claude was obliged to pull the screen
aside, for Christine, looking very white, remained seated behind it,
as if she lacked the strength to rise. She did not say a word about
the girl, but simply declared that she had felt very frightened; and
--trembling lest there should come another knock--she wanted to go at
once, carrying away with her, as her startled looks testified, the
disturbing thought of many things which she did not mention.

In fact, for a long time that sphere of brutal art, that studio full
of glaring pictures, had caused her a feeling of discomfort. Wounded
in all her feelings, full of repugnance, she could not get used to it
all. She had grown up full of affectionate admiration for a very
different style of art--her mother's fine water-colours, those fans of
dreamy delicacy, in which lilac-tinted couples floated about in bluish
gardens--and she quite failed to understand Claude's work. Even now
she often amused herself by painting tiny girlish landscapes, two or
three subjects repeated over and over again--a lake with a ruin, a
water-mill beating a stream, a chalet and some pine trees, white with
snow. And she felt surprised that an intelligent young fellow should
paint in such an unreasonable manner, so ugly and so untruthful
besides. For she not only thought Claude's realism monstrously ugly,
but considered it beyond every permissible truth. In fact, she thought
at times that he must be mad.

One day Claude absolutely insisted upon seeing a small sketch-book
which she had brought away from Clermont, and which she had spoken
about. After objecting for a long while, she brought it with her,
flattered at heart and feeling very curious to know what he would say.
He turned over the leaves, smiling all the while, and as he did not
speak, she was the first to ask:

'You think it very bad, don't you?'

'Not at all,' he replied. 'It's innocent.'

The reply hurt her, despite Claude's indulgent tone, which aimed at
making it amiable.

'Well, you see I had so few lessons from mamma. I like painting to be
well done, and pleasing.'

Thereupon he burst into frank laughter.

'Confess now that my painting makes you feel ill! I have noticed it.
You purse your lips and open your eyes wide with fright. Certainly it
is not the style of painting for ladies, least of all for young girls.
But you'll get used to it; it's only a question of educating your eyes
and you'll end by seeing that what I am doing is very honest and
healthy.'

Indeed, Christine slowly became used to it. But, at first, artistic
conviction had nothing to do with the change, especially as Claude,
with his contempt for female opinion, did not take the trouble to
indoctrinate her. On the contrary, in her company he avoided
conversing about art, as if he wished to retain for himself that
passion of his life, apart from the new passion which was gradually
taking possession of him. Still, Christine glided into the habit of
the thing, and became familiarised with it; she began to feel
interested in those abominable pictures, on noticing the important
place they held in the artist's existence. This was the first stage on
the road to conversion; she felt greatly moved by his rageful
eagerness to be up and doing, the whole-heartedness with which he
devoted himself to his work. Was it not very touching? Was there not
something very creditable in it? Then, on noticing his joy or
suffering, according to the success or the failure of the day's work,
she began to associate herself with his efforts. She felt saddened
when she found him sad, she grew cheerful when he received her
cheerfully; and from that moment her worry was--had he done a lot of
work? was he satisfied with what he had done since they had last seen
each other? At the end of the second month she had been gained over;
she stationed herself before his pictures to judge whether they were
progressing or not. She no longer felt afraid of them. She still did
not approve particularly of that style of painting, but she began to
repeat the artistic expressions which she had heard him use; declared
this bit to be 'vigorous in tone,' 'well built up,' or 'just in the
light it should be.' He seemed to her so good-natured, and she was so
fond of him, that after finding excuses for him for daubing those
horrors, she ended by discovering qualities in them in order that she
might like them a little also.

Nevertheless, there was one picture, the large one, the one intended
for the Salon, to which for a long while she was quite unable to
reconcile herself. She already looked without dislike at the studies
made at the Boutin studio and the sketches of Plassans, but she was
still irritated by the sight of the woman lying in the grass. It was
like a personal grudge, the shame of having momentarily thought that
she could detect in it a likeness of herself, and silent
embarrassment, too, for that big figure continued to wound her
feelings, although she now found less and less of a resemblance in it.
At first she had protested by averting her eyes. Now she remained for
several minutes looking at it fixedly, in mute contemplation. How was
it that the likeness to herself had disappeared? The more vigorously
that Claude struggled on, never satisfied, touching up the same bit a
hundred times over, the more did that likeness to herself gradually
fade away. And, without being able to account for it, without daring
to admit as much to herself, she, whom the painting had so greatly
offended when she had first seen it, now felt a growing sorrow at
noticing that nothing of herself remained.

Indeed it seemed to her as if their friendship suffered from this
obliteration; she felt herself further away from him as trait after
trait vanished. Didn't he care for her that he thus allowed her to be
effaced from his work? And who was the new woman, whose was the
unknown indistinct face that appeared from beneath hers?

Claude, in despair at having spoilt the figure's head, did not know
exactly how to ask her for a few hours' sitting. She would merely have
had to sit down, and he would only have taken some hints. But he had
previously seen her so pained that he felt afraid of irritating her
again. Moreover, after resolving in his own mind to ask her this
favour in a gay, off-hand way, he had been at a loss for words,
feeling all at once ashamed at the notion.

One afternoon he quite upset her by one of those bursts of anger which
he found it impossible to control, even in her presence. Everything
had gone wrong that week; he talked of scraping his canvas again, and
he paced up and down, beside himself, and kicking the furniture about.
Then all of a sudden he caught her by the shoulders, and made her sit
down on the couch.

'I beg of you, do me this favour, or it'll kill me, I swear it will.'

She did not understand him.

'What--what is it you want?'

Then as soon as she saw him take up his brushes, she added, without
heeding what she said, 'Ah, yes! Why did not you ask me before?'

And of her own accord she threw herself back on a cushion and slipped
her arm under her neck. But surprise and confusion at having yielded
so quickly made her grave, for she did not know that she was prepared
for this kind of thing; indeed, she could have sworn that she would
never serve him as a model again. Her compliance already filled her
with remorse, as if she were lending herself to something wrong by
letting him impart her own countenance to that big creature, lying
refulgent under the sun.

However, in two sittings, Claude worked in the head all right. He
exulted with delight, and exclaimed that it was the best bit of
painting he had ever done; and he was right, never had he thrown such
a play of real light over such a life-like face. Happy at seeing him
so pleased, Christine also became gay, going as far as to express
approval of her head, which, though not extremely like her, had a
wonderful expression. They stood for a long while before the picture,
blinking at it, and drawing back as far as the wall.

'And now,' he said at last, 'I'll finish her off with a model. Ah! so
I've got her at last.'

In a burst of childish glee, he took the girl round the waist, and
they performed 'a triumphant war dance,' as he called it. She laughed
very heartily, fond of romping as she was, and no longer feeling aught
of her scruples and discomfort.

But the very next week Claude became gloomy again. He had chosen Zoe
Piedefer as a model, but she did not satisfy him. Christine's delicate
head, as he expressed it, did not set well on the other's shoulders.
He, nevertheless, persisted, scratched out, began anew, and worked so
hard that he lived in a constant state of fever. Towards the middle of
January, seized with despair, he abandoned his picture and turned it
against the wall, swearing that he would not finish it. But a
fortnight later, he began to work at it again with another model, and
then found himself obliged to change the whole tone of it. Thus
matters got still worse; so he sent for Zoe again; became altogether
at sea, and quite ill with uncertainty and anguish. And the pity of it
was, that the central figure alone worried him, for he was well
satisfied with the rest of the painting, the trees of the background,
the two little women and the gentleman in the velvet coat, all
finished and vigorous. February was drawing to a close; he had only a
few days left to send his picture to the Salon; it was quite a
disaster.

One evening, in Christine's presence, he began swearing, and all at
once a cry of fury escaped him: 'After all, by the thunder of heaven,
is it possible to stick one woman's head on another's shoulders? I
ought to chop my hand off.'

From the depths of his heart a single idea now rose to his brain: to
obtain her consent to pose for the whole figure. It had slowly
sprouted, first as a simple wish, quickly discarded as absurd; then
had come a silent, constantly-renewed debate with himself; and at
last, under the spur of necessity, keen and definite desire. The
recollection of the morning after the storm, when she had accepted his
hospitality, haunted and tortured him. It was she whom he needed; she
alone could enable him to realise his dream, and he beheld her again
in all her youthful freshness, beaming and indispensable. If he could
not get her to pose, he might as well give up his picture, for no one
else would ever satisfy him. At times, while he remained seated for
hours, distracted in front of the unfinished canvas, so utterly
powerless that he no longer knew where to give a stroke of the brush,
he formed heroic resolutions. The moment she came in he would throw
himself at her feet; he would tell her of his distress in such
touching words that she would perhaps consent. But as soon as he
beheld her, he lost all courage, he averted his eyes, lest she might
decipher his thoughts in his instinctive glances. Such a request would
be madness. One could not expect such a service from a friend; he
would never have the audacity to ask.

Nevertheless, one evening as he was getting ready to accompany her,
and as she was putting on her bonnet, with her arms uplifted, they
remained for a moment looking into each other's eyes, he quivering,
and she suddenly becoming so grave, so pale, that he felt himself
detected. All along the quays they scarcely spoke; the matter remained
unmentioned between them while the sun set in the coppery sky. Twice
afterwards he again read in her looks that she was aware of his
all-absorbing thought. In fact, since he had dreamt about it, she had
began to do the same, in spite of herself, her attention roused by his
involuntary allusions. They scarcely affected her at first, though she
was obliged at last to notice them; still the question seemed to her
to be beyond the range of possibility, to be one of those unavowable
ideas which people do not even speak of. The fear that he would dare
to ask her did not even occur to her; she knew him well by now; she
could have silenced him with a gesture, before he had stammered the
first words, and in spite of his sudden bursts of anger. It was simple
madness. Never, never!

Days went by, and between them that fixed idea grew in intensity. The
moment they were together they could not help thinking of it. Not a
word was spoken on the subject, but their very silence was eloquent;
they no longer made a movement, no longer exchanged a smile without
stumbling upon that thought, which they found impossible to put into
words, though it filled their minds. Soon nothing but that remained in
their fraternal intercourse. And the perturbation of heart and senses
which they had so far avoided in the course of their familiar
intimacy, came at last, under the influence of the all-besetting
thought. And then the anguish which they left unmentioned, but which
they could not hide from one another, racked and stifled them, left
them heaving distressfully with painful sighs.

Towards the middle of March, Christine, at one of her visits, found
Claude seated before his picture, overcome with sorrow. He had not
even heard her enter. He remained motionless, with vacant, haggard
eyes staring at his unfinished work. In another three days the delay
for sending in exhibits for the Salon would expire.

'Well,' she inquired gently, after standing for a long time behind
him, grief-stricken at seeing him in such despair.

He started and turned round.

'Well, it's all up. I sha'n't exhibit anything this year. Ah! I who
relied so much upon this Salon!'

Both relapsed into despondency--a despondency and agitation full of
confused thoughts. Then she resumed, thinking aloud as it were:

'There would still be time.'

'Time? Oh! no indeed. A miracle would be needed. Where am I to find a
model so late in the day? Do you know, since this morning I have been
worrying, and for a moment I thought I had hit upon an idea: Yes, it
would be to go and fetch that girl, that Irma who came while you were
here. I know well enough that she is short and not at all such as I
thought of, and so I should perhaps have to change everything once
more; but all the same it might be possible to make her do. Decidedly,
I'll try her--'

He stopped short. The glowing eyes with which he gazed at her clearly
said: 'Ah! there's you! ah! it would be the hoped-for miracle, and
triumph would be certain, if you were to make this supreme sacrifice
for me. I beseech you, I ask you devoutly, as a friend, the dearest,
the most beauteous, the most pure.'

She, erect, looking very pale, seemed to hear each of those words,
though all remained unspoken, and his ardently beseeching eyes
overcame her. She herself did not speak. She simply did as she was
desired, acting almost like one in a dream. Beneath it all there
lurked the thought that he must not ask elsewhere, for she was now
conscious of her earlier jealous disquietude and wished to share his
affections with none. Yet it was in silence and all chastity that she
stretched herself on the couch, and took up the pose, with one arm
under her head, her eyes closed.

And Claude? Startled, full of gratitude, he had at last found again
the sudden vision that he had so often evoked. But he himself did not
speak; he began to paint in the deep solemn silence that had fallen
upon them both. For two long hours he stood to his work with such
manly energy that he finished right off a superb roughing out of the
whole figure. Never before had he felt such enthusiasm in his art. It
seemed to him as if he were in the presence of some saint; and at
times he wondered at the transfiguration of Christine's face, whose
somewhat massive jaws seemed to have receded beneath the gentle
placidity which her brow and cheeks displayed. During those two hours
she did not stir, she did not speak, but from time to time she opened
her clear eyes, fixing them on some vague, distant point, and
remaining thus for a moment, then closing them again, and relapsing
into the lifelessness of fine marble, with the mysterious fixed smile
required by the pose.

It was by a gesture that Claude apprized her he had finished. He
turned away, and when they stood face to face again, she ready to
depart, they gazed at one another, overcome by emotion which still
prevented them from speaking. Was it sadness, then, unconscious,
unnameable sadness? For their eyes filled with tears, as if they had
just spoilt their lives and dived to the depths of human misery. Then,
moved and grieved, unable to find a word, even of thanks, he kissed
her religiously upon the brow.

Back to chapter list of: His Masterpiece