HISMASTERPIECEÉmileZola

EditedbyErnestAlfredVizetelly

TableofContents

PrefaceIIIIIIIVVVIVIIVIIIIXXXIXII

PREFACE‘HISMASTERPIECE,’whichintheoriginalFrenchbearsthetitleofL’Oeuvre,isastrikinglyaccuratestoryofartisticlifeinParisduringthelatteryearsoftheSecondEmpire.Amusingattimes,extremelypatheticandevenpainfulatothers,itnotonlycontributesanecessaryelementtotheRougon–Macquartseriesofnovels—aseriesillustrativeofallphasesoflifeinFrancewithincertaindates—butitalsorepresentsaparticularperiodofM.Zola’sowncareerandwork.Someyears,indeed,beforethelatterhadmadehimselfknownatallwidelyasanovelist,hehadacquiredamongParisianpaintersandsculptorsconsiderablenotorietyasarevolutionaryartcritic,aferventchampionofthat‘Open–air’schoolwhichcameintobeingduringtheSecondEmpire,andwhichfounditsfirstrealmasterinEdouardManet,whosethenderidedworksareregarded,intheselaterdays,asmasterpieces.Manetdiedbeforehisgeniuswasfullyrecognised;stillhelivedlongenoughtoreapsomemeasureofrecognitionandtoseehisinfluencetriumphinmorethanonerespectamonghisbrotherartists.Indeed,fewifanypaintersleftastrongermarkontheartofthesecondhalfofthenineteenthcenturythanhedid,eventhoughtheschool,whichhesuggestedratherthanestablished,lapsedlargelyintomereimpressionism—aterm,bytheway,whichhehimselfcoinedalreadyin1858;foritisanerrortoattributeit—asisoftendone—tohisfriendandjunior,ClaudeMonet.

ItwasatthetimeoftheSalonof1866thatM.Zola,whocriticisedthatexhibitionintheEvenementnewspaper,[1]firstcametothefrontasanartcritic,slashingout,torightandleft,withallthevigourofaborncombatant,andchampioningM.Manet—whomhedidnotasyetknowpersonally—withafervourbornofthestrongestconvictions.Hehadcometotheconclusionthatthederidedpainterwasbeingtreatedwithinjustice,andthatopinionsufficedtothrowhimintothefray;evenas,inmorerecentyears,thebeliefthatCaptainDreyfuswasinnocentimpelledhiminlikemannertopleadthatunfortunateofficer’scause.WhenM.ZolafirstchampionedManetandhisdiscipleshewasonlytwenty–sixyearsold,yethedidnothesitatetopithimselfagainstmenwhowereregardedasthemosteminentpaintersandcriticsofFrance;andalthough(evenasintheDreyfuscase)theonlyimmediateresultofhiscampaignwastobringhimhatredandcontumely,time,whichalwayshasitsrevenges,haslongsinceshownhowrighthewasinforecastingtheultimatevictoryofManetandhisprincipalmethods.

InthosedaysM.Zola’smostintimatefriend—acompanionofhisboyhoodandyouth—wasPaulCezanne,apainterwhodevelopedtalentasanimpressionist;andthelivesofCezanneandManet,aswellasthatofacertainratherdissoluteengraver,whosatforthelatter’sfamouspictureLeBonBock,suggestedtoM.ZolathenovelwhichhehascalledL’Oeuvre.ClaudeLantier,thechiefcharacterinthebook,is,ofcourse,neitherCezannenorManet,butfromthecareersofthosetwopainters,M.Zolahasborrowedmanylittletouchesandincidents.[2]ThepovertywhichfallstoClaude’slotistakenfromthelifeofCezanne,forManet—theonlysonofajudge—wasalmostwealthy.Moreover,Manetmarriedveryhappily,andinnowiseledthepitifulexistencewhichinthenovelisascribedtoClaudeLantierandhishelpmate,Christine.TheoriginalofthelatterwasapoorwomanwhoformanyyearssharedthelifeoftheengravertowhomIhavealluded;

and,inthatconnection,itaswelltomentionthatwhatmaybecalledtheBennecourtepisodeofthenovelisvirtuallyphotographedfromlife.

Whilst,however,ClaudeLantier,theheroofL’Oeuvre,isunlikeManetinsomanyrespects,thereisacloseanalogybetweentheartistictheoriesandpracticesoftherealpainterandtheimaginaryone.SeveralofClaude’spicturesareManet’s,slightlymodified.Forinstance,theformer’spainting,‘IntheOpenAir,’isalmostareplicaofthelatter’sDejeunersurl’Herbe(‘ALunchontheGrass’),shownattheSalonoftheRejectedin1863.Again,manyofthesayingsputintoClaude’smouthinthenovelarereallysayingsofManet’s.AndClaude’sfate,attheendofthebook,isvirtuallythatofamoodyyoungfellowwholongassistedManetinhisstudio,preparinghispalette,cleaninghisbrushes,andsoforth.Thislad,whomManetpaintedinL’EnfantauxCerises(‘TheBoywiththeCherries’),hadartisticaspirationsofhisownand,beingunabletojustifythem,endedbyhanginghimself.

IhadjustaslightacquaintancewithManet,whosestudioIfirstvisitedearlyinmyyouth,andthoughtheexigenciesoflifeledmelongagotocastasideallartisticambitionofmyown,IhavebeenformorethanthirtyyearsonfriendlytermswithmembersoftheFrenchartworld.Thusitwouldbecomparativelyeasyformetoidentifyalargenumberofthecharactersandtheincidentsfiguringin‘HisMasterpiece’;butIdoubtifsuchidentificationwouldhaveanyparticularinterestforEnglishreaders.IwilljustmentionthatMahoudeau,thesculptor,is,inameasure,Solari,anotherfriendofM.Zola’sboyhoodandyouth;thatFagerolles,inhismainfeatures,isGervex;andthatBongrandisacomminglingofCourbet,CabanelandGustaveFlaubert.Forinstance,hisso–called‘VillageWedding’issuggestedbyCourbet’s‘FuneralatOrnans’;hisfriendshipforClaudeisCabanel’sfriendshipforManet;whilstsomeofhismannerisms,suchashisdislikeforthepraiseaccordedtocertainofhisworks,aresimplythoseofFlaubert,who(likeBalzacinthecaseofEugenieGrandet)almostinvariablylosthistemperifoneventuredtoextolMadameBovaryinhispresence.Courbet,bytheway,sofarasdispositiongoes,cropsupagaininM.Zola’spagesinthepersonofChampbouvard,asculptor,who,artistically,isapresentmentofClesinger.

Inowcometoapersonageofaverydifferentcharacter,PierreSandoz,clerk,journalist,andnovelist;andSandoz,itmaybefranklyadmitted,issimplyM.Zolahimself.Personalappearance,life,habits,opinions,allarethoseofthenovelistatacertainperiodofhiscareer;andforthisreason,nodoubt,manyreadersof‘HisMasterpiece’willfindSandozthemostinterestingpersonageinthebook.Itisneedless,Ithink,toenterintoparticularsonthesubject.ThereadermaytakeitfrommethateverythingattributedinthefollowingpagestoPierreSandozwasdone,experienced,feltorsaidbyEmileZola.Inthisrespect,then‘HisMasterpiece’isvirtuallyM.Zola’s‘DavidCopperfield’—thebookintowhichhehasputmostofhisreallife.Imayalsomention,perhaps,thatthelongwalksonthequaysofPariswhichinthenarrativeareattributedtoClaudeLantierarereallyM.Zola’swalks;for,inhisyouth,whenhevainlysoughtemploymentafterfailinginhisexaminations,hewaswont,attimesofgreatdiscouragement,toroamtheParisquays,studyingtheirbusylifeandtheirpicturesquevistas,wheneverhewasnotporingoverthesecond–handbookssetoutforsaleupontheirparapets.Fromapurelyliterarystandpoint,thepicturesofthequaysandtheSeinetobefoundinL’Oeuvreareperhapsthebestbitsofthebook,thoughitisallofinterest,becauseitisessentiallyalivrevecu,aworkreally‘lived’byitsauthor.

Andifinthemajorityofitscharacters,thosereaderspossessingsomerealknowledgeofFrenchartlifefindoneman’squalitiesblendedwithanother’sdefects,theappearanceofathird,andthehabitsofafourth,thewholenonethelessmakesapictureofgreatfidelitytolifeandtruth.ThisistheParisianartworldasitreallywas,withnothingimprobableoroverstrainedinthenarrative,saveitsveryfirstchapter,inwhichromanticismiscertainlyallowedfullplay.

ItisquitepossiblethatsomereadersmaynotjudgeClaudeLantier,the‘hero,’veryfavourably;heislikethedoginthefablewhoforsakesthesubstancefortheshadow;butitshouldbeborneinmindthatheisonlyinpartresponsibleforhisactions,forthefatalgermofinsanityhasbeentransmittedtohimfromhisgreat–grandmother.Heis,indeed,thesonofGervaise,theheroineofL’Assommoir(‘TheDramShop’),byherloverLantier.AndGervaise,itmayberemembered,wasthedaughterofAntoineMacquart(of‘TheFortuneoftheRougons’and‘Dr.Pascal’),thelatterbeingtheillegitimatesonofAdelaideFouque,fromwhomsprangtheinsanityoftheRougon–Macquarts.Atthesametime,whateverviewmaybetakenofClaude’sartistictheories,whateverinteresthisultimatefatemayinspire,itcannotbedeniedthathisopinionsonpaintingareveryablyexpressed,andthathis‘case,’fromapathologicalpointofview,isdiagnosticatedbyM.Zolawithalltheskillofaphysician.Moreover,therecanbebutoneopinionconcerningthehelpmateofhislife,thepoordevotedChristine;andnoonepossessedoffeelingwillbeabletoreadthehistoryoflittleJacquesunmoved.

StoriesofartisticlifearenotasaruleparticularlypopularwithEnglishreaders,butthisisnotsurprisingwhenoneremembersthatthosewhotakeagenuineinterestinart,inthiscountry,arestillasmallminority.Quiteapartfromartisticmatters,however,thereis,Ithink,anabundanceofhumaninterestinthepagesof‘HisMasterpiece,’andthusIventuretohopethatthepresentversion,whichIhavepreparedascarefullyasmypowerspermit,willmeetwiththefavourofthosewhohavesupportedme,foragoodmanyyearsnow,inmyendeavourstomakethemajorityofM.Zola’sworksaccessibleinthiscountry.

E.A.V.

MERTON,SURREY.

[1]SomeofthearticleswillbefoundinthevolumeofhismiscellaneouswritingsentitledMesHaines.[2]SofarasManetisconcerned,thecuriousreadermayconsultM.AntoninProust’sinteresting‘Souvenirs,’publishedintheRevueBlanche,earlyin1897.

ICLAUDEwaspassinginfrontoftheHoteldeVille,andtheclockwasstrikingtwoo’clockinthemorningwhenthestormburstforth.HehadbeenroamingforgetfullyabouttheCentralMarkets,duringthatburningJulynight,likealoiteringartistenamouredofnocturnalParis.Suddenlytheraindropscamedown,solargeandthick,thathetooktohisheelsandrushed,wildlybewildered,alongtheQuaidelaGreve.ButonreachingthePontLouisPhilippehepulledup,ragefullybreathless;heconsideredthisfearoftheraintobeidiotic;andsoamidthepitch–likedarkness,underthelashingshowerwhichdrownedthegas–jets,hecrossedthebridgeslowly,withhishandsdanglingbyhisside.

Hehadonlyafewmorestepstogo.AshewasturningontotheQuaiBourbon,ontheIsleofSt.Louis,asharpflashoflightningilluminedthestraight,monotonouslineofoldhousesborderingthenarrowroadinfrontoftheSeine.Itblazeduponthepanesofthehigh,shutterlesswindows,showingupthemelancholyfrontagesoftheold–fashioneddwellingsinalltheirdetails;hereastonebalcony,theretherailingofaterrace,andthereagarlandsculpturedonafrieze.Thepainterhadhisstudiocloseby,undertheeavesoftheoldHotelduMartoy,nearlyatthecorneroftheRuedelaFemme–sans–Tete.[3]Sohewentonwhilethequay,afterflashingforthforamoment,relapsedintodarkness,andaterriblethunder–clapshookthedrowsyquarter.

WhenClaude,blindedbytherain,gottohisdoor—alow,roundeddoor,studdedwithiron—hefumbledforthebellknob,andhewasexceedinglysurprised—indeed,hestarted—onfindingaliving,breathingbodyhuddledagainstthewoodwork.Then,bythelightofasecondflash,heperceivedatallyounggirl,dressedinblack,anddrenchedalready,whowasshiveringwithfear.Whenasecondthunder–claphadshakenbothofthem,Claudeexclaimed:

‘Howyoufrightenone!Whoareyou,andwhatdoyouwant?’

Hecouldnolongerseeher;heonlyheardhersob,andstammer:

‘Oh,monsieur,don’thurtme.It’sthefaultofthedriver,whomIhiredatthestation,andwholeftmeatthisdoor,afterill–treatingme.Yes,atrainranofftherails,nearNevers.Wewerefourhourslate,andapersonwhowastowaitformehadgone.Oh,dearme;IhaveneverbeeninParisbefore,andIdon’tknowwhereIam….’

Anotherblindingflashcuthershort,andwithdilatedeyesshestared,terror–stricken,atthatpartofthestrangecapital,thatviolet–tintedapparitionofafantasticcity.Therainhadceasedfalling.OntheoppositebankoftheSeinewastheQuaidesOrmes,withitssmallgreyhousesvariegatedbelowbythewoodworkoftheirshopsandwiththeirirregularroofsboldlyoutlinedabove,whilethehorizonsuddenlybecameclearontheleftasfarastheblueslateeavesoftheHoteldeVille,andontherightasfarastheleaden–hueddomeofSt.Paul.Whatstartledhermostofall,however,wasthehollowofthestream,thedeepgapinwhichtheSeineflowed,blackandturgid,fromtheheavypilesofthePontMarie,tothelightarchesofthenewPontLouisPhilippe.Strangemassespeopledtheriver,asleepingflotillaofsmallboatsandyawls,afloatingwashhouse,andadredgermooredto

thequay.Then,fartherdown,againsttheotherbank,werelighters,ladenwithcoals,andbargesfullofmillstone,dominatedasitwerebythegiganticarmofasteamcrane.But,suddenly,everythingdisappearedagain.

Claudehadaninstinctivedistrustofwomen—thatstoryofanaccident,ofabelatedtrainandabrutalcabman,seemedtohimaridiculousinvention.Atthesecondthunder–clapthegirlhadshrunkfartherstillintohercorner,absolutelyterrified.

‘Butyoucannotstophereallnight,’hesaid.

Shesobbedstillmoreandstammered,‘Ibeseechyou,monsieur,takemetoPassy.That’swhereIwasgoing.’

Heshruggedhisshoulders.Didshetakehimforafool?Mechanically,however,heturnedtowardstheQuaidesCelestins,wheretherewasacabstand.Notthefaintestglimmerofalamptobeseen.

‘ToPassy,mydear?WhynottoVersailles?Wheredoyouthinkonecanpickupacabatthistimeofnight,andinsuchweather?’

Heronlyanswerwasashriek;forafreshflashoflightninghadalmostblindedher,andthistimethetragiccityhadseemedtohertobespatteredwithblood.Animmensechasmhadbeenrevealed,thetwoarmsoftheriverstretchingfarawayamidsttheluridflamesofaconflagration.Thesmallestdetailshadappeared:thelittleclosedshuttersoftheQuaidesOrmes,andthetwoopeningsoftheRuedelaMasure,andtheRueduPaon–Blanc,whichmadebreaksinthelineoffrontages;thennearthePontMarieonecouldhavecountedtheleavesontheloftyplanetrees,whichthereformabouquetofmagnificentverdure;whileontheotherside,beneaththePontLouisPhilippe,attheMail,thebarges,rangedinaquadrupleline,hadflaredwiththepilesofyellowappleswithwhichtheywereheavilyladen.Andtherewasalsotherippleofthewater,thehighchimneyofthefloatingwashhouse,thetightenedchainofthedredger,theheapsofsandonthebanks,indeed,anextraordinaryagglomerationofthings,quitealittleworldfillingthegreatgapwhichseemedtostretchfromonehorizontotheother.Buttheskybecamedarkagain,andtheriverflowedon,allobscurity,amidthecrashingofthethunder.

‘Thankheavenit’sover.Oh,heaven!what’stobecomeofme?’

Justthentherainbegantofallagain,sostifflyandimpelledbysostrongawindthatitsweptalongthequaywiththeviolenceofwaterescapingthroughanopenlock.

‘Come,letmegetin,’saidClaude;‘Icanstandthisnolonger.’

Bothweregettingdrenched.BytheflickeringlightofthegaslampatthecorneroftheRuedelaFemme–sans–Tetetheyoungmancouldseethewaterdrippingfromthegirl’sdress,whichwasclingingtoherskin,inthedelugethatsweptagainstthedoor.Hewasseizedwithcompassion.Hadhenotoncepickedupacuronsuchastormynightasthis?Yethefeltangrywithhimselfforsoftening.Heneverhadanythingtodowithwomen;hetreatedthemallasifignorantoftheirexistence,withapainfultimiditywhichhedisguisedunderamaskofbravado.Andthatgirlmustreallythinkhimadownrightfool,tobamboozlehimwiththatstoryofadventure—onlyfitforafarce.Nevertheless,heendedbysaying,‘That’senough.Youhadbettercomeinoutofthewet.Youcansleepinmyrooms.’

Butatthisthegirlbecameevenmorefrightened,andthrewupherarms.

‘Inyourrooms?Oh!goodheavens.No,no;it’simpossible.Ibeseechyou,monsieur,takemetoPassy.Letmebegofyou.’

ButClaudebecameangry.Whydidshemakeallthisfuss,whenhewaswillingtogivehershelter?Hehadalreadyrungthebelltwice.Atlastthedooropenedandhepushedthegirlbeforehim.

‘No,no,monsieur;Itellyou,no—’

Butanotherflashdazzledher,andwhenthethundergrowledsheboundedinside,scarceknowingwhatshewasabout.Theheavydoorhadcloseduponthem,shewasstandingunderalargearchwayincompletedarkness.

‘It’sI,MadameJoseph,’criedClaudetothedoorkeeper.Thenheadded,inawhisper,‘Givemeyourhand,wehavetocrossthecourtyard.’

Thegirldidasshewastold;shenolongerresisted;shewasoverwhelmed,wornout.Oncemoretheyencounteredthediluvianrain,astheyransidebysideashardastheycouldacrosstheyard.Itwasabaronialcourtyard,huge,andsurroundedwithstonearcades,indistinctamidstthegloom.However,theycametoanarrowpassagewithoutadoor,andheletgoherhand.Shecouldhearhimtryingtostrikesomematches,andswearing.Theywerealldamp.Itwasnecessaryforthemtogropetheirwayupstairs.

‘Takeholdofthebanisters,andbecareful,’saidClaude;‘thestepsareveryhigh.’

Thestaircase,averynarrowone,aformerservants’staircase,wasdividedintothreeloftyflights,whichsheclimbed,stumbling,withunskilful,wearylimbs.Thenhewarnedherthattheyhadtoturndownalongpassage.Shekeptbehindhim,touchingthewallsonbothsideswithheroutstretchedhands,assheadvancedalongthatendlesspassagewhichbentandcamebacktothefrontofthebuildingonthequay.Thentherewerestillotherstairsrightundertheroof—creaking,shakywoodenstairs,whichhadnobanister,andsuggestedtheunplanedrungsofamiller’sladder.Thelandingatthetopwassosmallthatthegirlknockedagainsttheyoungman,ashefumbledinhispocketforhiskey.Atlast,however,heopenedthedoor.

‘Don’tcomein,butwait,elseyou’llhurtyourselfagain.’

Shedidnotstir.Shewaspantingforbreath,herheartwasbeatingfast,therewasabuzzinginherears,andshefeltindeedexhaustedbythatascentinthedensegloom.Itseemedtoherasifshehadbeenclimbingforhours,insuchamaze,amidstsuchaturningandtwistingofstairsthatshewouldneverbeabletofindherwaydownagain.Insidethestudiotherewasashufflingofheavyfeet,arustlingofhandsgropinginthedark,aclatterofthingsbeingtumbledabout,accompaniedbystifledobjurgations.Atlastthedoorwaywaslightedup.

‘Comein,it’sallrightnow.’

Shewentinandlookedaroundher,withoutdistinguishinganything.Thesolitarycandleburneddiminthatgarret,morethanfifteenfeethigh,andfilledwithaconfusedjumbleofthingswhosebigshadowsshowedfantasticallyonthewalls,whichwerepaintedingreydistemper.No,shedidnotdistinguishanything.Shemechanicallyraisedhereyestothe

largestudio–window,againstwhichtherainwasbeatingwithadeafeningrolllikethatofadrum,butatthatmomentanotherflashoflightningilluminedthesky,followedalmostimmediatelybyathunder–clapthatseemedtosplittheroof.Dumb–stricken,paleasdeath,shedroppeduponachair.

‘Thedevil!’mutteredClaude,whoalsowasratherpale.‘Thatclapwasn’tfaroff.Wewerejustintime.It’sbetterherethaninthestreets,isn’tit?’

Thenhewenttowardsthedoor,closeditwithabangandturnedthekey,whileshewatchedhimwithadazedlook.

‘There,now,weareathome.’

Butitwasallover.Therewereonlyafewmorethunder–clapsinthedistance,andtherainsoonceasedaltogether.Claude,whowasnowgrowingembarrassed,hadexaminedthegirl,askance.Sheseemedbynomeansbadlooking,andassuredlyshewasyoung:twentyatthemost.Thisscrutinyhadtheeffectofmakinghimmoresuspiciousofherstill,inspiteofanunconsciousfeeling,avagueidea,thatshewasnotaltogetherdeceivinghim.Inanycase,nomatterhowclevershemightbe,shewasmistakenifsheimaginedshehadcaughthim.Toprovethishewilfullyexaggeratedhisgruffnessandcurtnessofmanner.

Herveryanguishathiswordsanddemeanourmadeherrise,andinherturnsheexaminedhim,thoughwithoutdaringtolookhimstraightintheface.Andtheaspectofthatbonyyoungman,withhisangularjointsandwildbeardedface,increasedherfears.Withhisblackfelthatandhisoldbrowncoat,discolouredbylongusage,helookedlikeakindofbrigand.

Directlyhetoldhertomakeherselfathomeandgotobed,forheplacedhisbedatherdisposal,sheshrinkinglyreplied:‘Thankyou;I’lldoverywellasIam;I’llnotundress.’

‘Butyourclothesaredripping,’heretorted.‘Comenow,don’tmakeanidiotofyourself.’

Andthereuponhebegantoknockaboutthechairs,andflungasideanoldscreen,behindwhichshenoticedawashstandandatinyironbedstead,fromwhichhebegantoremovethecoverlet.

‘No,no,monsieur,itisn’tworthwhile;IassureyouthatIshallstayhere.’

Atthis,however,Claudebecameangry,gesticulatingandshakinghisfists.

‘Howmuchmoreofthiscomedyarewetohave?’saidhe.‘AsIgiveyoumybed,whathaveyoutocomplainof?Youneednotpayanyattentiontome.Ishallsleeponthatcouch.’

Hestrodetowardsherwithathreateninglook,andthereupon,besideherselfwithfear,thinkingthathewasgoingtostrikeher,shetremblinglyunfastenedherhat.Thewaterwasdrippingfromherskirts.Hekeptongrowling.Nevertheless,asuddenscrupleseemedtocometohim,forheendedbysaying,condescendingly:

‘Perhapsyoudon’tliketosleepinmysheets.I’llchangethem.’

Heatoncebegandraggingthemfromthebedandflingingthemontothecouchattheotherendofthestudio.Andafterwardshetookacleanpairfromthewardrobeandbegantomakethebedwithallthedeftnessofabacheloraccustomedtothatkindofthing.He

carefullytuckedintheclothesonthesidenearthewall,shookthepillows,andturnedbackacornerofthecoverlet.

‘There,that’lldo;won’tit?’saidhe.

Andasshedidnotanswer,butremainedmotionless,hepushedherbehindthescreen.‘Goodheavens!whatalotoffuss,’hethought.Andafterspreadinghisownsheetsonthecouch,andhanginghisclothesonaneasel,hequicklywenttobedhimself.Whenhewasonthepointofblowingoutthecandle,however,hereflectedthatifhedidsoshewouldhavetoundressinthedark,andsohewaited.Atfirsthehadnotheardherstir;shehadnodoubtremainedstandingagainsttheironbedstead.Butatlasthedetectedaslightrustling,aslow,faintmovement,asifamidstherpreparationsshealsowerelistening,frightenedperchancebythecandlewhichwasstillalight.Atlast,afterseveralminutes,thespringmattresscreaked,andthenallbecamestill.

‘Areyoucomfortable,mademoiselle?’nowaskedClaude,inamuchmoregentlevoice.

‘Yes,monsieur,verycomfortable,’shereplied,inascarcelyaudiblevoice,whichstillquiveredwithemotion.

‘Verywell,then.Good–night.’

‘Good–night.’

Heblewoutthecandle,andthesilencebecamemoreintense.Inspiteofhisfatigue,hiseyessoonopenedagain,andgazedupwardatthelargewindowofthestudio.Theskyhadbecomeveryclearagain,thestarsweretwinklinginthesultryJulynight,and,despitethestorm,theheatremainedoppressive.Claudewasthinkingaboutthegirl—agitatedforamomentbycontraryfeelings,thoughatlastcontemptgainedthemastery.Heindeedbelievedhimselftobeverystrong–minded;heimaginedaromanceconcoctedtodestroyhistranquillity,andhegibedcontentedlyathavingfrustratedit.Hisexperienceofwomenwasveryslight,neverthelessheendeavouredtodrawcertainconclusionsfromthestoryshehadtoldhim,struckashewasatpresentbycertainpettydetails,andfeelingperplexed.Butwhy,afterall,shouldheworryhisbrain?Whatdiditmatterwhethershehadtoldhimthetruthoralie?Inthemorningshewouldgooff;therewouldbeanendtoitall,andtheywouldneverseeeachotheragain.ThusClaudelaycogitating,anditwasonlytowardsdaybreak,whenthestarsbegantopale,thathefellasleep.Asforthegirlbehindthescreen,inspiteofthecrushingfatigueofherjourney,shecontinuedtossingaboutuneasily,oppressedbytheheavinessoftheatmospherebeneaththehotzinc–workoftheroof;anddoubtless,too,shewasrenderednervousbythestrangenessofhersurroundings.

Inthemorning,whenClaudeawoke,hiseyeskeptblinking.Itwasverylate,andthesunshinestreamedthroughthelargewindow.Oneofhistheorieswas,thatyounglandscapepaintersshouldtakestudiosdespisedbytheacademicalfigurepainters—studioswhichthesunfloodedwithlivingbeams.Neverthelesshefeltdazzled,andfellbackagainonhiscouch.Whythedevilhadhebeensleepingthere?Hiseyes,stillheavywithsleep,wanderedmechanicallyroundthestudio,when,allatonce,besidethescreenhenoticedaheapofpetticoats.Thenheatoncerememberedthegirl.Hebegantolisten,andheardasoundoflong–drawn,regularbreathing,likethatofachildcomfortablyasleep.Ah!soshewasstillslumbering,andsocalmly,thatitwouldbeapitytodisturbher.Hefeltdazedand

somewhatannoyedattheadventure,however,foritwouldspoilhismorning’swork.Hegotangryathisowngoodnature;itwouldbebettertoshakeher,sothatshemightgoatonce.Neverthelessheputonhistrousersandslipperssoftly,andwalkedaboutontiptoes.

Thecuckooclockstrucknine,andClaudemadeagestureofannoyance.Nothinghadstirred;theregularbreathingcontinued.Thebestthingtodo,hethought,wouldbetosettoworkonhislargepicture;hewouldseetohisbreakfastlateron,whenhewasabletomoveabout.But,afterall,hecouldnotmakeuphismind.Hewholivedamidchronicdisorderfeltworriedbythatheapofpetticoatslyingonthefloor.Somewaterhaddrippedfromthem,buttheyweredampstill.Andso,whilegrumblinginalowtone,heendedbypickingthemuponebyoneandspreadingthemoverthechairsinthesunlight.Hadoneeverseenthelike,clothesthrownaboutanyhow?Theywouldnevergetdry,andshewouldnevergooff!Heturnedallthatfeminineappareloververyawkwardly,gotentangledwiththeblackdress–body,andwentonallfourstopickupthestockingsthathadfallenbehindanoldcanvas.TheywereBalbrigganstockingsofadarkgrey,longandfine,andheexaminedthem,beforehangingthemuptodry.Thewateroozingfromtheedgeofthedresshadsoakedthem,sohewrungandstretchedthemwithhiswarmhands,inorderthathemightbeabletosendherawaythequicker.

Sincehehadbeenonhislegs,Claudehadfeltsorelytemptedtopushasidethescreenandtotakealookathisguest.Thisself–condemnedcuriosityonlyincreasedhisbadtemper.Atlast,withhishabitualshrugoftheshoulders,hewastakinguphisbrushes,whenheheardsomewordsstammeredamidstarustlingofbed–clothes.Then,however,softbreathingwasheardagain,andthistimeheyieldedtothetemptation,droppinghisbrushes,andpeepingfrombehindthescreen.Thesightthatmethiseyesrootedhimtothespot,sofascinatedthathemuttered,‘Goodgracious!goodgracious!’

Thegirl,amidstthehot–househeatthatcamefromthewindow,hadthrownbackhercoverlet,and,overcomewiththefatigueofarestlessnight,laysteepedinafloodofsunshine,unconsciousofeverything.Inherfeverishslumbersashoulderbuttonhadbecomeunfastened,andasleeveslippingdownallowedherbosomtobeseen,withskinwhichlookedalmostgildedandsoftlikesatin.Herrightarmrestedbeneathherneck,herheadwasthrownback,andherblackunwoundtressesenwrappedherlikeaduskycloak.

‘Goodgracious!Butshe’sabeauty!’mutteredClaudeoncemore.

There,ineverypoint,wasthefigurehehadvainlysoughtforhispicture,anditwasalmostintherightpose.Shewasratherspare,perhaps,butthensolitheandfresh.

Withalightstep,Clauderantotakehisboxofcrayons,andalargesheetofpaper.Then,squattingonalowchair,heplacedaportfolioonhiskneesandbegantosketchwithanairofperfecthappiness.Allelsevanishedamidstartisticsurpriseandenthusiasm.Nothoughtofsexcametohim.Itwasallamerequestionofchasteoutlines,splendidfleshtints,well–setmuscles.Facetofacewithnature,anuneasymistrustofhispowersmadehimfeelsmall;so,squaringhiselbows,hebecameveryattentiveandrespectful.Thislastedforaboutaquarterofanhour,duringwhichhepausedeverynowandthen,blinkingatthefigurebeforehim.Ashewasafraid,however,thatshemightchangeherposition,hespeedilysettoworkagain,holdinghisbreath,lestheshouldawakenher.

Andyet,whilesteadilyapplyinghimselftohiswork,vaguefanciesagainassailedhis

mind.Whocouldshebe?Assuredlynomerehussy.Butwhyhadshetoldhimsuchanunbelievabletale?Thereuponhebegantoimagineotherstories.PerhapsshehadbutlatelyarrivedinPariswithalover,whohadabandonedher;perhapsshewassomeyoungwomanofthemiddleclassesledintobadcompanybyafemalefriend,andnotdaringtogohometoherrelatives;orelsetherewassomestillmoreintricatedramabeneathitall;somethinghorrible,inexplicable,thetruthofwhichhewouldneverfathom.Allthesehypothesesincreasedhisperplexity.Meanwhile,hewentonsketchingherface,studyingitwithcare.Thewholeoftheupperpart,theclearforehead,assmoothasapolishedmirror,thesmallnose,withitsdelicatelychiselledandnervousnostrils,denotedgreatkindlinessandgentleness.Onedivinedthesweetsmileoftheeyesbeneaththeclosedlids;asmilethatwouldlightupthewholeofthefeatures.Unfortunately,thelowerpartofthefacemarredthatexpressionofsweetness;thejawwasprominent,andthelips,rathertoofull,showedalmostblood–likeoverthestrongwhiteteeth.Therewashere,likeaflashofpassion,somethingthatspokeofawakeningwomanhood,stillunconsciousofitselfamidstthoseothertraitsofchildlikesoftness.

Butsuddenlyashiverrippledoverthegirl’ssatinyskin.Perhapsshehadfelttheweightofthatgazethusmentallydissectingher.Sheopenedhereyesverywideandutteredacry.

‘Ah!greatheavens!’

Suddenterrorparalysedheratthesightofthatstrangeroom,andthatyoungmancrouchinginhisshirt–sleevesinfrontofheranddevouringherwithhiseyes.Flushinghotly,sheimpulsivelypulledupthecounterpane.

‘Well,what’sthematter?’criedClaude,angrily,hiscrayonsuspendedinmid–air;‘whatwasphasstungyounow?’

He,whoseknowledgeofwomankindwaslargelylimitedtoprofessionalmodels,wasatalosstounderstandthegirl’saction.

Sheneitherspokenorstirred,butremainedwiththecounterpanetightlywrappedroundherthroat,herbodyalmostdoubledup,andscarcelyshowinganoutlinebeneathhercoverings.

‘Iwon’teatyou,willI?’urgedClaude.‘Come,justlieasyouwere,there’sagoodgirl.’

Againsheblushedtoherveryears.Atlastshestammered,‘Oh,no,monsieur,no—pray!’

Buthebegantolosehistemperaltogether.Oneoftheangryfitstowhichhewassubjectwascominguponhim.Hethoughtherobstinacystupid.Andasinresponsetohisurgentrequestssheonlybegantosob,hequitelosthisheadindespairbeforehissketch,thinkingthathewouldneverbeabletofinishit,andwouldthusloseacapitalstudyforhispicture.

‘Well,youwon’t,eh?Butit’sidiotic.Whatdoyoutakemefor?HaveIannoyedyouatall?YouknowIhaven’t.Besides,listen,itisveryunkindofyoutorefusemethisservice,because,afterall,Ishelteredyou—Igaveupmybedtoyou.’

Sheonlycontinuedtocry,withherheadburiedinthepillow.

‘IassureyouthatIamverymuchinwantofthissketch,elseIwouldn’tworryyou.’

Hegrewsurprisedatthegirl’sabundanttears,andashamedathavingbeensoroughwith

her,soheheldhistongueatlast,feelingembarrassed,andwishingtoothatshemighthavetimetorecoverabit.Thenhebeganagain,inaverygentletone:

‘Well,asitannoysyou,let’ssaynomoreaboutit.Butifyouonlyknew.I’vegotafigureinmypictureyonderwhichdoesn’tmakehead–wayatall,andyouwerejustintheverynote.Asforme,whenit’saquestionofpainting,I’dkillfatherandmother,youknow.Well,you’llexcuseme,won’tyou?Andifyou’dlikemetobeverynice,you’djustgivemeafewminutesmore.No,no;keepquietasyouare;Ionlywantthehead—nothingbutthehead.IfIcouldfinishthat,itwouldbeallright.Reallynow,bekind;putyourarmasitwasbefore,andIshallbeverygratefultoyou—gratefulallmylifelong.’

Itwashewhowasentreatingnow,pitifullywavinghiscrayonamidtheemotionofhisartisticcraving.Besides,hehadnotstirred,butremainedcrouchingonhislowchair,atadistancefromthebed.Atlastsheriskedtheordeal,anduncoveredhertranquillisedface.Whatelsecouldshedo?Shewasathismercy,andhelookedsowretchedlyunhappy.

Nevertheless,shestillhesitated,shefeltsomelastscruples.Buteventually,withoutsayingaword,sheslowlybroughtherbarearmfrombeneaththecoverings,andagainslippeditunderherhead,takingcare,however,tokeepthecounterpanetightlyroundherthroat.

‘Ah!howkindyouare!I’llmakehaste,youwillbefreeinaminute.’

Hebentoverhisdrawing,andonlylookedathernowandthenwiththeglanceofapainterwhosimplyregardsthewomanbeforehimasamodel.Atfirstshebecamepinkagain;theconsciousnessthatshewasshowingherbarearm—whichshewouldhaveshowninaball–roomwithoutthinkingatallaboutit—filledherwithconfusion.Nevertheless,theyoungmanseemedsoreasonablethatshebecamereassured.Theblushlefthercheeks,andherlipspartedinavagueconfidingsmile.Andfrombetweenherhalf–openedeyelidsshebegantostudyhim.Howhehadfrightenedherthepreviousnightwithhisthickbrownbeard,hislargehead,andhisimpulsivegestures.Andyethewasnotugly;sheevendetectedgreattendernessinthedepthsofhisbrowneyes,whilehisnosealtogethersurprisedher.Itwasafinely–cutwoman’snose,almostlostamidstthebristlinghaironhislips.Heshookslightlywithanervousanxietywhichmadehiscrayonseemalivingthinginhisslenderhand,andwhichtouchedherthoughsheknewnotwhy.Shefeltsurehewasnotbad–natured,hisrough,surlywaysarosefrombashfulness.Shedidnotdecipherallthisveryclearly,butshedivinedit,andbegantoputherselfatherease,asifshewerewithafriend.

Nevertheless,thestudiocontinuedtofrightenheralittle.Shecastsidelongglancesaroundit,astonishedatsomuchdisorderandcarelessness.Beforethestovethecindersofthepreviouswinterstilllayinaheap.Besidesthebed,thesmallwashstand,andthecouch,therewasnootherfurniturethananolddilapidatedoakenwardrobeandalargedealtable,litteredwithbrushes,colours,dirtyplates,andaspiritlamp,atopofwhichwasasaucepan,withshredsofvermicellistickingtoitssides.Somerush–bottomedchairs,theirseatstheworseforwear,werescatteredaboutbesidespavinedeasels.Nearthecouchthecandlestickusedonthepreviousnightstoodonthefloor,whichlookedasifithadnotbeensweptforfullyamonth.Therewasonlythecuckooclock,ahugeone,withadialilluminatedwithcrimsonflowers,thatlookedcleanandbright,tickingsonorouslyallthewhile.Butwhatespeciallyfrightenedherweresomesketchesinoilsthathungframeless

fromthewalls,aserriedarrayofsketchesreachingtothefloor,wheretheymingledwithheapsofcanvasesthrownaboutanyhow.Shehadneverseensuchterriblepainting,socoarse,soglaring,showingaviolenceofcolour,thatjarreduponhernerveslikeacarter’soathheardonthedoorstepofaninn.Shecasthereyesdownforamoment,andthenbecameattractedbyapicture,thebackofwhichwasturnedtoher.Itwasthelargecanvasatwhichthepainterwasworking,andwhichhepushedagainstthewalleverynight,thebettertojudgeitonthemorrowinthesurpriseofthefirstglance.Whatcoulditbe,thatone,shewondered,sincehedarednotevenshowit?And,meantime,throughthevastroom,asheetofburningsunlight,fallingstraightfromthewindowpanes,uncheckedbyanyblind,spreadwiththeflowofmoltengoldoverallthebroken–downfurniture,whosedevil–may–careshabbinessitthrewintoboldrelief.

Claudebegantofeelthesilenceoppressive;hewantedtosaysomething,nomatterwhat,first,inordertobepolite,andmoreespeciallytodivertherattentionfromherpose.Butcudgelhisbrainashewould,hecouldonlythinkofasking:‘Pray,whatisyourname?’

Sheopenedhereyes,whichshehadclosed,asifshewerefeelingsleepy.

‘Christine,’shesaid.

Atwhichheseemedsurprised.Neitherhadhetoldherhisname.Sincethenightbeforetheyhadbeentogether,sidebyside,withoutknowingoneanother.

‘MynameisClaude.’

And,havinglookedatherjustatthatmoment,hesawherburstintoaprettylaugh.Itwasthesudden,merrypealofabiggirl,stillscarcelymorethanahoyden.Sheconsideredthistardyexchangeofnamesratherdroll.Thensomethingelseamusedher.

‘Howfunny—Claude,Christine—theybeginwiththesameletter.’

Theybothbecamesilentoncemore.Hewasblinkingathiswork,growingabsorbedinit,andatalosshowtocontinuetheconversation.Hefanciedthatshewasbeginningtofeeltiredanduncomfortable,andinhisfearlestsheshouldstir,heremarkedatrandom,merelytooccupyherthoughts,‘Itfeelsratherwarm.’

Thistimeshecheckedherlaughter,hernaturalgaietythatrevivedandburstforthinspiteofherselfeversinceshehadfelteasierinmind.Truthtotell,theheatwasindeedsooppressivethatitseemedtoherasifshewereinabath,withskinmoistandpalewiththemilkypallorofacamellia.

‘Yes,itfeelsratherwarm,’shesaid,seriously,thoughmirthwasdancinginhereyes.

ThereuponClaudecontinued,withagood–naturedair:

‘It’sthesunfallingstraightin;but,afterall,afloodofsunshineonone’sskindoesonegood.Wecouldhavedonewithsomeofitlastnightatthedoor,couldn’twe?’

Atthisbothburstoutlaughing,andhe,delightedathavinghituponasubjectofconversation,questionedheraboutheradventure,without,however,feelinginquisitive,forhecaredlittleaboutdiscoveringtherealtruth,andwasonlyintentuponprolongingthesitting.

Christinesimply,andinafewwords,relatedwhathadbefallenher.Earlyontheprevious

morningshehadleftClermontforParis,whereshewastotakeupasituationasreaderandcompaniontothewidowofageneral,MadameVanzade,aricholdlady,wholivedatPassy.ThetrainwastimedtoreachParisattenminutespastnineintheevening,andamaidwastomeetheratthestation.Theyhadevensettledbyletteruponameansofrecognition.Shewastowearablackhatwithagreyfeatherinit.But,alittleaboveNevers,hertrainhadcomeuponagoodstrainwhichhadrunofftherails,itslitterofsmashedtrucksstillobstructingtheline.Therewasquiteaseriesofmishapsanddelays.Firstaninterminablewaitinthecarriages,whichthepassengershadtoquitatlast,luggageandall,inordertotrudgetothenextstation,threekilometresdistant,wheretheauthoritieshaddecidedtomakeupanothertrain.Bythistimetheyhadlosttwohours,andthenanothertwowerelostinthegeneralconfusionwhichtheaccidenthadcausedfromoneendofthelinetotheother,insuchwisethattheyreachedtheParisterminusfourhoursbehindtime,thatis,atoneo’clockinthemorning.

‘Badluck,indeed,’interruptedClaude,whowasstillsceptical,thoughhalfdisarmed,inhissurpriseattheneatwayinwhichthegirlarrangedthedetailsofherstory.

‘And,ofcourse,therewasnooneatthestationtomeetyou?’headded.

Christinehad,indeed,missedMadameVanzade’smaid,who,nodoubt,hadgrowntiredofwaiting.ShetoldClaudeofherutterhelplessnessattheLyonsterminus—thatlarge,strange,darkstation,desertedatthatlatehourofnight.Shehadnotdaredtotakeacabatfirst,buthadkeptonwalkingupanddown,carryinghersmallbag,andstillhopingthatsomebodywouldcomeforher.Whenatlastshemadeuphermindthereonlyremainedonedriver,verydirtyandsmellingofdrink,whoprowledroundher,offeringhiscabinaknowing,impudentway.

‘Yes,Iknow,adawdler,’saidClaude,gettingasinterestedasifhewerelisteningtoafairytale.‘Soyougotintohiscab?’

Lookingupattheceiling,Christinecontinued,withoutshiftingherposition:‘Hemademe;hecalledmehislittledear,andfrightenedme.WhenhefoundoutthatIwasgoingtoPassy,hebecameveryangry,andwhippedhishorsesohardthatIwasobligedtoholdonbythedoors.AfterthatIfeltmoreeasy,becausethecabtrundledalongallrightthroughthelightedstreets,andIsawpeopleabout.AtlastIrecognisedtheSeine,forthoughIwasneverinParisbefore,Ihadoftenlookedatamap.NaturallyIthoughthewouldkeepalongthequay,soIbecameveryfrightenedagainonnoticingthatwecrossedabridge.Justthenitbegantorain,andthecab,whichhadgotintoaverydarkturning,suddenlystopped.Thedrivergotdownfromhisseat,anddeclareditwasrainingtoohardforhimtoremainonthebox—’

Claudeburstoutlaughing.Henolongerdoubted.Shecouldnothaveinventedthatdriver.Andasshesuddenlystopped,somewhatconfused,hesaid,‘Allright,thecabmanwashavingajoke.’

‘Ijumpedoutatoncebytheotherdoor,’resumedChristine.‘Thenhebegantoswearatme,sayingthatwehadarrivedatPassy,andthathewouldtearmyhatfrommyheadifIdidnotpayhim.Itwasrainingintorrents,andthequaywasabsolutelydeserted.Iwaslosingmyhead,andwhenIhadpulledoutafive–francpiece,hewhippeduphishorseanddroveoff,takingmylittlebag,whichluckilyonlycontainedtwopocket–handkerchiefs,a

bitofcake,andthekeyofmytrunk,whichIhadbeenobligedtoleavebehindinthetrain.’

‘Butyououghttohavetakenhisnumber,’exclaimedtheartistindignantly.Infacthenowrememberedhavingbeenbrushedagainstbyapassingcab,whichhadrattledbyfuriouslywhilehewascrossingthePontLouisPhilippe,amidthedownpourofthestorm.Andhereflectedhowimprobabletruthoftenwas.Thestoryhehadconjuredupasbeingthemostsimpleandlogicalwasutterlystupidbesidethenaturalchainoflife’smanycombinations.

‘YoumayimaginehowIfeltunderthedoorway,’concludedChristine.‘IknewwellenoughthatIwasnotatPassy,andthatIshouldhavetospendthenightthere,inthisterribleParis.Andtherewasthethunderandthelightning—thosehorribleblueandredflashes,whichshowedmethingsthatmademetremble.’

Sheclosedhereyelidsoncemore,sheshivered,andthecolourlefthercheeksas,inherfancy,sheagainbeheldthetragiccity—thatlineofquaysstretchingawayinafurnace–likeblaze,thedeepmoatoftheriver,withitsleadenwatersobstructedbyhugeblackmasses,lighterslookinglikelifelesswhales,andbristlingwithmotionlesscraneswhichstretchedforthgallows–likearms.WasthatawelcometoParis?

Againdidsilencefall.Claudehadresumedhisdrawing.Butshebecamerestless,herarmwasgettingstiff.

‘Justputyourelbowalittlelower,please,’saidClaude.Then,withanairofconcern,asiftoexcusehiscurtness:‘Yourparentswillbeveryuneasy,iftheyhaveheardoftheaccident.’

‘Ihavenoparents.’

‘What!neitherfathernormother?Youareallaloneintheworld?’

‘Yes;allalone.’

Shewaseighteenyearsold,andhadbeenborninStrasburg,quitebychance,though,betweentwochangesofgarrison,forherfatherwasasoldier,CaptainHallegrain.Justassheentereduponhertwelfthyear,thecaptain,aGascon,hailingfromMontauban,haddiedatClermont,wherehehadsettledwhenparalysisofthelegshadobligedhimtoretirefromactiveservice.Fornearlyfiveyearsafterwards,hermother,aParisianbybirth,hadremainedinthatdullprovincialtown,managingaswellasshecouldwithherscantypension,butekingitoutbyfan–painting,inorderthatshemightbringupherdaughterasalady.Shehad,however,nowbeendeadforfifteenmonths,andhadleftherchildpennilessandunprotected,withoutafriend,savetheSuperioroftheSistersoftheVisitation,whohadkeptherwiththem.ChristinehadcomestraighttoParisfromtheconvent,theSuperiorhavingsucceededinprocuringherasituationasreaderandcompaniontoheroldfriend,MadameVanzade,whowasalmostblind.

Attheseadditionalparticulars,Claudesatabsolutelyspeechless.Thatconvent,thatwell–bredorphan,thatadventure,alltakingsoromanticaturn,madehimrelapseintoembarrassmentagain,intoallhisformerawkwardnessofgestureandspeech.Hehadleftoffdrawing,andsatlooking,withdowncasteyes,athissketch.

‘IsClermontpretty?’heasked,atlast.

‘Notvery;it’sagloomytown.Besides,Idon’tknow;Iscarcelyeverwentout.’

Shewasrestingonherelbow,andcontinued,asiftalkingtoherselfinaverylowvoice,stilltremulousfromthethoughtofherbereavement.

‘Mamma,whowasn’tstrong,killedherselfwithwork.Shespoiltme;nothingwastoogoodforme.Ihadallsortsofmasters,butIdidnotgetonverywell;first,becauseIfellill,thenbecauseIpaidnoattention.Iwasalwayslaughingandskippingaboutlikeafeatherbrain.Ididn’tcareformusic,pianoplayinggavemeacrampinmyarms.TheonlythingIcaredaboutatallwaspainting.’

Heraisedhisheadandinterruptedher.‘Youcanpaint?’

‘Oh,no;Iknownothing,nothingatall.Mamma,whowasverytalented,mademedoalittlewater–colour,andIsometimeshelpedherwiththebackgroundsofherfans.Shepaintedsomelovelyones.’

Inspiteofherself,shethenglancedatthestartlingsketcheswithwhichthewallsseemedablaze,andherlimpideyesassumedanuneasyexpressionatthesightofthatrough,brutalstyleofpainting.Fromwhereshelaysheobtainedatopsy–turvyviewofthestudyofherselfwhichthepainterhadbegun,andherconsternationattheviolenttonesshenoticed,theroughcrayonstrokes,withwhichtheshadowsweredashedoff,preventedherfromaskingtolookatitmoreclosely.Besides,shewasgrowingveryuncomfortableinthatbed,whereshelaybroiling;shefidgettedwiththeideaofgoingoffandputtinganendtoallthesethingswhich,eversincethenightbefore,hadseemedtohersomuchofadream.

Claude,nodoubt,becameawareofherdiscomfort.Asuddenfeelingofshamebroughtwithitoneofcompunction.

Heputhisunfinishedsketchaside,andhastilyexclaimed:‘Muchobligedforyourkindness,mademoiselle.Forgiveme,Ihavereallyabusedit.Yes,indeed,praygetup;it’stimeforyoutolookforyourfriends.’

Andwithoutappearingtounderstandwhyshedidnotfollowhisadvice,buthidmoreandmoreofherbarearminproportionashedrewnearer,hestillinsisteduponadvisinghertorise.Allatonce,astherealstateofthingsstruckhim,heswunghisarmsaboutlikeamadman,setthescreeninposition,andwenttothefarendofthestudio,wherehebegannoisilysettinghiscrockeryinorder,sothatshemightjumpoutanddressherself,withoutfearofbeingoverheard.

Amidstthedinhehadthusraised,hefailedtohearherhesitatingvoice,‘Monsieur,monsieur—’

Atlasthecaughtherwords.

‘Monsieur,wouldyoubesokind—Ican’tfindmystockings.’

Claudehurriedforward.Whathadhebeenthinkingof?Whatwasshetodobehindthatscreen,withoutherstockingsandpetticoats,whichhehadspreadoutinthesunlight?Thestockingsweredry,heassuredhimselfofthatbygentlyrubbingthemtogether,andhehandedthemtoheroverthepartition;againnoticingherarm,bare,plumpandrosylikethatofachild.Thenhetossedtheskirtsontothefootofthebedandpushedherbootsforward,leavingnothingbutherbonnetsuspendedfromtheeasel.Shehadthankedhim

andthatwasall;hescarcelydistinguishedtherustlingofherclothesandthediscreetsplashingofwater.Stillhecontinuedtoconcernhimselfabouther.

‘Youwillfindthesoapinasauceronthetable.Openthedrawerandtakeacleantowel.Doyouwantmorewater?I’llgiveyouthepitcher.’

Suddenlytheideathathewasblunderingagainexasperatedhim.

‘There,there,Iamonlyworryingyou.Iwillleaveyoutoyourowndevices.Doasifyouwereathome.’

Andhecontinuedtopotteraboutamongthecrockery.Hewasdebatingwithhimselfwhetherheshouldaskhertostaytobreakfast.Heoughtnottolethergolikethat.Ontheotherhand,ifshedidstay,hewouldnevergetdone;itwouldmeanalossofhiswholemorning.Withoutdecidinganything,assoonashehadlightedhisspiritlamp,hewashedhissaucepanandbegantomakesomechocolate.Hethoughtitmoredistingue,feelingratherashamedofhisvermicelli,whichhemixedwithbreadandsousedwithoilaspeopledointheSouthofFrance.However,hewasstillbreakingthechocolateintobits,whenheutteredacryofsurprise,‘What,already?’

ItwasChristine,whohadpushedbackthescreen,andwhoappearedlookingneatandcorrectinherblackdress,dulylacedandbuttonedup,equipped,asitwere,inatwinkle.Herrosyfacedidnotevenshowtracesofthewater,herthickhairwastwistedinaknotatthebackofherhead,notasinglelockoutofplace.AndClauderemainedopen–mouthedbeforethatmiracleofquickness,thatproofoffeminineskillindressingwellandpromptly.

‘Thedeuce,ifyougoabouteverythinginthatway!’saidhe.

Hefoundhertallerandhandsomerthanhehadfancied.Butwhatstruckhimmostwasherlookofquietdecision.Shewasevidentlynolongerafraidofhim.Itseemedasthoughshehadre–donnedherarmourandbecomeanamazonagain.Shesmiledandlookedhimstraightintheface.Whereuponhesaidwhathewasstillreluctanttosay:

‘You’llbreakfastwithme,won’tyou?’

Butsherefusedtheoffer.‘No,thankyou.Iamgoingtothestation,wheremytrunkmusthavearrivedbynow,andthenIshalldrivetoPassy.’

Itwasinvainthathetoldherthatshemustbehungry,thatitwasunreasonableforhertogooutwithouteatingsomething.

‘Well,ifyouwon’t,I’llgodownandfetchyouacab,’heendedbyexclaiming.

‘Praydon’ttakesuchtrouble.’

‘Butyoucan’tgosuchadistanceonfoot.Letmeatleasttakeyoutothecabstand,asyoudon’tknowParis.’

‘No,reallyIdonotneedyou.Ifyouwishtoobligeme,letmegoawaybymyself.’

Shehadevidentlymadeuphermind.Shenodoubtshrankfromtheideaofbeingseenwithaman,evenbystrangers.Shemeanttoremainsilentaboutthatstrangenight,shemeanttotellsomefalsehood,andkeeptherecollectionofheradventureentirelytoherself.Hemadeafuriousgesture,whichwastantamounttosendinghertothedevil.

Goodriddance;itsuitedhimbetternottohavetogodown.But,allthesame,hefelthurtatheart,andconsideredthatshewasungrateful.

‘Asyouplease,then.Isha’n’tresorttoforce,’hesaid.

Atthesewords,Christine’svaguesmilebecamemoreaccentuated.Shedidnotreply,buttookherbonnetandlookedroundinsearchofaglass.Failingtofindone,shetiedthestringsasbestshecould.Withherarmsuplifted,sheleisurelyarrangedandsmoothedtheribbons,herfaceturnedtowardsthegoldenraysofthesun.Somewhatsurprised,Claudelookedinvainforthetraitsofchildishsoftnessthathehadjustportrayed;theupperpartofherface,herclearforehead,hergentleeyeshadbecomelessconspicuous;andnowthelowerpartstoodout,withitssomewhatsensualjaw,ruddymouth,andsuperbteeth.Andstillshesmiledwiththatenigmatical,girlishsmile,whichwas,perhaps,anironicalone.

‘Atanyrate,’hesaid,inavexedtone,‘Idonotthinkyouhaveanythingtoreproachmewith.’

Atwhichshecouldnothelplaughing,withaslight,nervouslaugh.

‘No,no,monsieur,notintheleast.’

Hecontinuedstaringather,fightingthebattleofinexperienceandbashfulnessoveragain,andfearingthathehadbeenridiculous.Nowthatshenolongertrembledbeforehim,hadshebecomecontemptuouslysurprisedathavingtrembledatall?What!hehadnotmadetheslightestattemptatcourtship,notevenpressedakissonherfinger–tips.Theyoungfellow’sbearishindifference,ofwhichshehadassuredlybeenconscious,musthavehurtherbuddingwomanlyfeelings.

‘Youweresaying,’sheresumed,becomingsedateoncemore,‘thatthecabstandisattheendofthebridgeontheoppositequay?’

‘Yes;atthespotwherethereisaclumpoftrees.’

Shehadfinishedtyingherbonnetstrings,andstoodreadygloved,withherhandshangingbyherside,andyetshedidnotgo,butstaredstraightinfrontofher.Ashereyesmetthebigcanvasturnedtothewallshefeltawishtoseeit,butdidnotdaretoask.Nothingdetainedher;stillsheseemedtobelookingaroundasifshehadforgottensomethingthere,somethingwhichshecouldnotname.Atlastshesteppedtowardsthedoor.

Claudewasalreadyopeningit,andasmallloafplacederectagainsttheposttumbledintothestudio.

‘Yousee,’hesaid,‘yououghttohavestoppedtobreakfastwithme.Mydoorkeeperbringsthebreadupeverymorning.’

Sheagainrefusedwithashakeofthehead.Whenshewasonthelandingsheturnedround,andforamomentremainedquitestill.Hergaysmilehadcomeback;shewasthefirsttoholdoutherhand.

‘Thankyou,thankyouverymuch.’

Hehadtakenhersmallglovedhandwithinhislargeone,allpastel–stainedasitwas.Bothhandsremainedlikethatforafewmoments,closelyandcordiallypressed.Theyounggirlwasstillsmilingathim,andhehadaquestiononthetipofhistongue:‘WhenshallIsee

youagain?’Buthefeltashamedtoaskit,andafterwaitingawhileshewithdrewherhand.

‘Good–bye,monsieur.’

‘Good–bye,mademoiselle.’

Christine,withoutanotherglance,wasalreadydescendingthesteepladder–likestairwaywhosestepscreaked,whenClaudeturnedabruptlyintohisstudio,closingthedoorwithabang,andshoutingtohimself:‘Ah,thoseconfoundedwomen!’

Hewasfurious—furiouswithhimself,furiouswitheveryone.Kickingaboutthefurniture,hecontinuedtoeasehisfeelingsinaloudvoice.Wasnotherightinneverallowingthemtocrosshisthreshold?Theyonlyturnedafellow’shead.Whatproofhadheafterallthatyonderchitwiththeinnocentlook,whohadjustgone,hadnotfooledhimmostabominably?Andhehadbeensillyenoughtobelieveinhercock–and–bullstories!Allhissuspicionsrevived.Noonewouldevermakehimswallowthatfairytaleofthegeneral’swidow,therailwayaccident,andespeciallythecabman.Didsuchthingseverhappeninreallife?Besides,thatmouthofherstoldastrangetale,andherlookshadbeenverysingularjustasshewasgoing.Ah!ifhecouldonlyhaveunderstoodwhyshehadtoldhimallthoselies;butno,theywereprofitless,inexplicable.Itwasartforart’ssake.Howshemustbelaughingathimbythistime.

Heroughlyfoldedupthescreenandsentitflyingintoacorner.Shehadnodoubtleftallindisorder.Andwhenhefoundthateverythingwasinitsproperplace—basin,towel,andsoap—heflewintoaragebecauseshehadnotmadethebed.Withagreatdealoffusshebegantomakeithimself,liftingthemattressinhisarms,bangingthepillowaboutwithhisfists,andfeelingoppressedbythepurescentofyouththatrosefromeverything.Thenhehadagoodwashtocoolhimself,andinthedamptowelhefoundthesamevirginfragrance,whichseemedtospreadthroughthestudio.Swearingthewhile,hedrankhischocolatefromthesaucepan,soexcited,soeagertosettowork,astoswallowlargemouthfulsofbreadwithouttakingbreath.

‘Why,it’senoughtokillonehere,’hesuddenlyexclaimed.‘Itmustbethisconfoundedheatthat’smakingmeill.’

Afterall,thesunhadshifted,anditwasfarlesshot.Butheopenedasmallwindowonalevelwiththeroof,andinhaled,withanairofprofoundrelief,thewhiffofwarmairthatentered.ThenhetookuphissketchofChristine’sheadandforalongwhilehelingeredlookingatit.

[3]ThestreetoftheHeadlesswoman.—ED.

IIIThadstrucktwelve,andClaudewasworkingathispicturewhentherewasaloud,familiarknockatthedoor.Withaninstinctiveyetinvoluntaryimpulse,theartistslippedthesketchofChristine’shead,bytheaidofwhichhewasremodellingtheprincipalfigureofhispicture,intoaportfolio.Afterwhichhedecidedtoopenthedoor.

‘You,Pierre!’heexclaimed,‘already!’

PierreSandoz,afriendofhisboyhood,wasabouttwenty–two,verydark,witharoundanddeterminedhead,asquarenose,andgentleeyes,setinenergeticfeatures,girtroundwithasproutingbeard.

‘Ibreakfastedearlierthanusual,’heanswered,‘inordertogiveyoualongsitting.Thedevil!youaregettingonwithit.’

Hehadstationedhimselfinfrontofthepicture,andheaddedalmostimmediately:‘Hallo!youhavealteredthecharacterofyourwoman’sfeatures!’

Thencamealongpause;theybothkeptstaringatthecanvas.Itmeasuredaboutsixteenfeetbyten,andwasentirelypaintedover,thoughlittleoftheworkhadgonebeyondtheroughing–out.Thisroughing–out,hastilydashedoff,wassuperbinitsviolenceandardentvitalityofcolour.Afloodofsunlightstreamedintoaforestclearing,withthickwallsofverdure;totheleft,stretchedadarkgladewithasmallluminousspeckinthefardistance.Onthegrass,amidstallthesummervegetation,layanudewomanwithonearmsupportingherhead,andthoughhereyeswereclosedshesmiledamidstthegoldenshowerthatfellaroundher.Inthebackground,twootherwomen,onefair,andtheotherdark,wrestledplayfully,settinglightfleshtintsamidstallthegreenleaves.And,asthepainterhadwantedsomethingdarkbywayofcontrastintheforeground,hehadcontentedhimselfwithseatingthereagentleman,dressedinablackvelveteenjacket.Thisgentlemanhadhisbackturnedandtheonlypartofhisfleshthatonesawwashislefthand,withwhichhewassupportinghimselfonthegrass.

‘Thewomanpromiseswell,’saidSandoz,atlast;‘but,dashit,therewillbealotofworkinallthis.’

Claude,withhiseyesblazinginfrontofhispicture,madeagestureofconfidence.‘I’velotsoftimefromnowtilltheSalon.Onecangetthroughadealofworkinsixmonths.AndperhapsthistimeI’llbeabletoprovethatIamnotabrute.’

Thereuponhesetupawhistle,inwardlypleasedatthesketchhehadmadeofChristine’shead,andbuoyedupbyoneofthoseflashesofhopewhencehesooftendroppedintotorturinganguish,likeanartistwhompassionfornatureconsumed.

‘Come,nomoreidling,’heshouted.‘Asyou’rehere,letussetto.’

Sandoz,outofpurefriendship,andtosaveClaudethecostofamodel,hadofferedtoposeforthegentlemanintheforeground.InfourorfiveSundays,theonlydayoftheweekonwhichhewasfree,thefigurewouldbefinished.Hewasalreadydonningthevelveteen

jacket,whenasuddenreflectionmadehimstop.

‘But,Isay,youhaven’treallylunched,sinceyouwereworkingwhenIcamein.JustgodownandhaveacutletwhileIwaithere.’

TheideaoflosingtimerevoltedClaude.‘ItellyouIhavebreakfasted.Lookatthesaucepan.Besides,youcanseethere’sacrustofbreadleft.I’lleatit.Come,towork,towork,lazy–bones.’

Andhesnatcheduphispaletteandcaughthisbrushes,saying,ashedidso,‘Dubucheiscomingtofetchusthisevening,isn’the?’

‘Yes,aboutfiveo’clock.’

‘Well,that’sallrightthen.We’llgodowntodinnerdirectlyhecomes.Areyouready?Thehandmoretotheleft,andyourheadalittlemoreforward.’

Havingarrangedsomecushions,Sandozsettledhimselfonthecouchintherequiredattitude.Hisbackwasturned,butallthesametheconversationcontinuedforanothermoment,forhehadthatverymorningreceivedaletterfromPlassans,thelittleProvencaltownwhereheandtheartisthadknowneachotherwhentheywerewearingouttheirfirstpairsoftrousersontheeighthformofthelocalcollege.However,theyleftofftalking.Theonewasworkingwithhismindfarawayfromtheworld,whiletheothergrewstiffandcrampedwiththesleepywearinessofprotractedimmobility.

ItwasonlywhenClaudewasnineyearsoldthataluckychancehadenabledhimtoleaveParisandreturntothelittleplaceinProvence,wherehehadbeenborn.Hismother,ahardworkinglaundress,[4]whomhisne’er–do–wellfatherhadscandalouslydeserted,hadafterwardsmarriedanhonestartisanwhowasmadlyinlovewithher.Butinspiteoftheirendeavours,theyfailedtomakebothendsmeet.Hencetheygladlyacceptedtheofferofanelderlyandwell–to–dotownsmantosendtheladtoschoolandkeephimwithhim.Itwasthegenerousfreakofaneccentricamateurofpainting,whohadbeenstruckbythelittlefiguresthattheurchinhadoftendaubed.AndthusforsevenyearsClaudehadremainedintheSouth,atfirstboardingatthecollege,andafterwardslivingwithhisprotector.Thelatter,however,wasfounddeadinhisbedonemorning.Helefttheladathousandfrancsayear,withthefacultyofdisposingoftheprincipalwhenhereachedtheageoftwenty–five.Claude,alreadyseizedwithapassionforpainting,immediatelyleftschoolwithoutevenattemptingtosecureabachelor’sdegree,andrushedtoPariswhitherhisfriendSandozhadprecededhim.

AttheCollegeofPlassans,whilestillinthelowestform,ClaudeLantier,PierreSandoz,andanotherladnamedLouisDubuche,hadbeenthreeinseparables.Sprungfromthreedifferentclassesofsociety,bynomeanssimilarincharacter,butsimplyborninthesameyearatafewmonths’interval,theyhadbecomefriendsatonceandforaye,impelledtheretobycertainsecretaffinities,thestillvaguepromptingsofacommonambition,thedawningconsciousnessofpossessinggreaterintelligencethanthesetofdunceswhomaltreatedthem.Sandoz’sfather,aSpaniard,whohadtakenrefugeinFranceinconsequenceofsomepoliticaldisturbancesinwhichhehadbeenmixedup,hadstarted,nearPlassans,apapermillwithnewmachineryofhisowninvention.Whenhehaddied,heart–brokenbythepettylocaljealousythathadsoughttohamperhimineveryway,his

widowhadfoundherselfinsoinvolvedaposition,andburdenedwithsomanytangledlawsuits,thatthewholeofherremainingmeanswereswallowedup.ShewasanativeofBurgundy.YieldingtoherhatredoftheProvencals,andlayingattheirdooreventheslowparalysisfromwhichshewassuffering,sheremovedtoPariswithherson,whothensupportedheroutofameagreclerk’ssalary,hehimselfhauntedbythevisionofliteraryglory.AsforDubuche,hewasthesonofabakerofPlassans.Pushedbyhismother,acovetousandambitiouswoman,hehadjoinedhisfriendsinParislateron.HewasattendingthecoursesattheSchoolofArtsasapupilarchitect,livingasbesthemightuponthelastfive–francpiecesthathisparentsstakedonhischances,withtheobstinacyofusurersdiscountingthefutureattherateofahundredpercent.

‘Dashit!’atlastexclaimedSandoz,breakingtheintensesilencethathungupontheroom.‘Thispositionisn’tatalleasy;mywristfeelsbroken.CanImoveforamoment?’

Claudelethimstretchhimselfwithoutanswering.Hewasnowworkingatthevelveteenjacket,layingonthecolourwiththickstrokes,However,steppingbackwardandblinking,hesuddenlyburstintoloudlaughteratsomereminiscence.

‘Isay,doyourecollect,whenwewereinthesixthform,how,oneday,PouillaudlightedthecandlesinthatidiotLalubie’scupboard?AndhowfrightenedLalubiewaswhen,beforegoingtohisdesk,heopenedthecupboardtotakehisbooks,andfoundittransformedintoamortuarychapel?Fivehundredlinestoeveryoneintheform.’

Sandoz,unabletowithstandthecontagionoftheother’sgaiety,flunghimselfbackonthecouch.Asheresumedhispose,heremarked,‘Ah,thatbruteofaPouillaud.YouknowthatinhisletterthismorninghetellsmeofLalubie’sforthcomingmarriage.Theoldhackismarryingaprettygirl.Butyouknowher,she’sthedaughterofGallissard,thehaberdasher—thelittlefair–hairedgirlwhomweusedtoserenade!’

Onceonthesubjectoftheirrecollectionstherewasnostoppingthem,thoughClaudewentonpaintingwithgrowingfeverishness,whilePierre,stillturnedtowardsthewall,spokeoverhisshoulders,shakingeverynowandthenwithexcitement.

Firstofallcamerecollectionsofthecollege,theold,dankconvent,thatextendedasfarasthetownramparts;thetwocourtyardswiththeirhugeplanetrees;theslimysedge–coveredpond,wheretheyhadlearnedtoswim,andtheclass–roomswithdrippingplasterwallsonthegroundfloor;thentherefectory,withitsatmosphereconstantlypoisonedbythefumesofdish–water;thedormitoryofthelittleones,famousforitshorrors,thelinenroom,andtheinfirmary,fullofgentlesisters,nunsinblackgownswholookedsosweetbeneaththeirwhitecoifs.Whatato–dotherehadbeenwhenSisterAngela,shewhoseMadonna–likefacehadturnedtheheadsofallthebigfellows,disappearedonemorningwithHermeline,astalwartfirst–formlad,who,fromsheerlove,purposelycuthishandswithhispenknifesoastogetanopportunityofseeingandspeakingtoherwhileshedressedhisself–inflictedinjurieswithgold–beater’sskin.

Thentheypassedthewholecollegestaffinreview;apitiful,grotesque,andterribleprocessionitwas,withsuchheadsasareseenonmeerschaumpipes,andprofilesinstinctwithhatredandsuffering.Therewastheheadmaster,whoruinedhimselfingivingparties,inordertomarryhisdaughters—twotall,elegantgirls,thebuttofconstantandabominableinsults,writtenandsketchedoneverywall;therewasthecomptrollerPifard,

whosewonderfulnosebetrayedhispresencebehindeverydoor,whenhewenteavesdropping;andtherewerealltheteachers,eachbefouledwithsomeinsultingnickname:thesevere‘Rhadamantus,’whohadneverbeenseentosmile;‘Filth,’whobytheconstantrubbingofhisheadhadlefthismarkonthewallbehindeveryprofessionalseatheoccupied;‘Thou–hast–deceived–me–Adele,’theprofessorofphysics,atwhomtengenerationsofschoolboyshadtauntinglyflungthenameofhisunfaithfulwife.Therewereothersstill:Spontini,theferocioususher,withhisCorsicanknife,rustywiththebloodofthreecousins;littleChantecaille,whowassogood–naturedthatheallowedthepupilstosmokewhenoutwalking;andalsoascullionandascullerymaid,twouglycreatureswhohadbeennicknamedParaboulomenosandParalleluca,andwhowereaccusedofkissingoneanotheroverthevegetableparings.

Thencamecomicalreminiscences;thesuddenrecollectionofpracticaljokes,atwhichtheyshookwithlaughterafterallthoseyears.Oh!themorningwhentheyhadburnedtheshoesofMimi–la–Mort,aliastheSkeletonDayBoarder,alanklad,whosmuggledsnuffintotheschoolforthewholeoftheform.Andthenthatwintereveningwhentheyhadbaggedsomematcheslyingnearthelampinthechapel,inordertosmokedrychestnutleavesinreedpipes.Sandoz,whohadbeentheringleaderonthatoccasion,nowfranklyavowedhisterror;thecoldperspirationthathadcomeuponhimwhenhehadscrambledoutofthechoir,wraptindarkness.AndagaintherewasthedaywhenClaudehadhituponthesublimeideaofroastingsomecockchafersinhisdesktoseewhethertheyweregoodtoeat,aspeoplesaidtheywere.Soterriblehadbeenthestench,sodensethesmokethatpouredfromthedesk,thattheusherhadrushedtothewaterpitcher,undertheimpressionthattheplacewasonfire.Andthentheirmaraudingexpeditions;thepillagingofonionbedswhiletheywereoutwalking;thestonesthrownatwindows,thecorrectthingbeingtomakethebreakageresembleawell–knowngeographicalmap.AlsotheGreekexercises,writtenbeforehandinlargecharactersontheblackboard,sothateveryduncemighteasilyreadthemthoughthemasterremainedunawareofit;thewoodenseatsofthecourtyardsawnoffandcarriedroundthebasinlikesomanycorpses,theboysmarchinginprocessionandsingingfuneraldirges.Yes!thathadbeenacapitalprank.Dubuche,whoplayedthepriest,hadtumbledintothebasinwhiletryingtoscoopsomewaterintohiscap,whichwastoserveasaholywaterpot.ButthemostcomicalandamusingofalltheprankshadperhapsbeenthatdevisedbyPouillaud,whoonenighthadfastenedalltheunmentionablecrockeryofthedormitorytoonelongstringpassedunderthebeds.Atdawn—itwastheverymorningwhenthelongvacationbegan—hehadpulledthestringandskedaddleddownthethreeflightsofstairswiththisfrightfultailofcrockeryboundingandsmashingtopiecesbehindhim.

Attherecollectionofthislastincident,Clauderemainedgrinningfromeartoear,hisbrushsuspendedinmid–air.‘ThatbruteofaPouillaud!’helaughed.‘Andsohehaswrittentoyou.Whatishedoingnow?’

‘Why,nothingatall,oldman,’answeredSandoz,seatinghimselfmorecomfortablyonthecushions.‘Hisletterisidiotic.Heisjustfinishinghislawstudies,andhewillinherithisfather’spracticeasasolicitor.Yououghttoseethestylehehasalreadyassumed—alltheidioticausterityofaphilistine,whohasturnedoveranewleaf.’

TheyweresilentoncemoreuntilSandozadded,‘Yousee,oldboy,wehavebeen

protectedagainstthatsortofthing.’

Thentheyrelapsedagainintoreminiscences,butsuchasmadetheirheartsthump;theremembranceofthemanyhappydaystheyhadspentfarawayfromthecollege,intheopenairandthefullsunlight.Whenstillveryyoung,andonlyinthesixthform,thethreeinseparableshadbecomepassionatelyfondoftakinglongwalks.Theshortestholidayswereeagerlyseizedupontotrampformilesandmiles;and,gettingbolderastheygrewup,theyfinishedbyscouringthewholeofthecountry–side,bymakingjourneysthatsometimeslastedfordays.Theysleptwheretheycould,inthecleftofarock,onsomethreshing–floor,stillburninghot,wherethestrawofthebeatencornmadethemasoftcouch,orinsomedesertedhut,thegroundofwhichtheycoveredwithwildthymeandlavender.Thosewereflightsfarfromtheeverydayworld,whentheybecameabsorbedinhealthymotherNatureherself,adoringtreesandstreamsandmountains;revellinginthesupremejoyofbeingaloneandfree.

Dubuche,whowasaboarder,hadonlyjoinedthemonhalf–holidaysandduringthelongvacation.Besides,hislegswereheavy,andhehadthequietnatureofastudiouslad.ButClaudeandSandozneverwearied;theyawakenedeachothereverySundaymorningbythrowingstonesattheirrespectiveshutters.Insummer,aboveall,theywerehauntedbythethoughtoftheViorne,thetorrent,whosetinystreamwatersthelow–lyingpasturesofPlassans.Whenscarcelytwelvetheyalreadyknewhowtoswim,anditbecameapassionwiththemtopotteraboutintheholeswherethewateraccumulated;tospendwholedaysthere,starknaked,dryingthemselvesontheburningsand,andthenreplungingintotheriver,livingthereasitwere,ontheirbacks,ontheirstomachs,searchingamongthereedsonthebanks,immerseduptotheirears,andwatchingthehiding–placesoftheeelsforhoursatastretch.Thatconstantcontactofwaterbeneathaburningsunprolongedtheirchildhood,asitwere,andlentthemthejoyouslaughteroftruanturchins,thoughtheywerealmostyoungmen,whenofaneveningtheyreturnedtothetownamidstthestilloppressiveheatofasummersunset.Laterontheybecameveryfondofshooting,butshootingsuchasiscarriedoninaregiondevoidofgame,wheretheyhadtotrudgeascoreofmilestopickoffhalfadozenpettychaps,orfig–peckers;wonderfulexpeditions,whencetheyreturnedwiththeirbagsempty,orwithamerebat,whichtheyhadmanagedtobringdownwhiledischargingtheirgunsattheoutskirtsofthetown.Theireyesmoistenedattherecollectionofthosehappydays;theyoncemorebeheldthewhiteendlessroads,coveredwithlayersofdust,asiftherehadbeenafallofsnow.Theypacedthemagainandagainintheirimagination,happytohearthefanciedcreakingoftheirheavyshoes.Thentheycutacrossthefields,overthereddish–brownferruginoussoil,careeringmadlyonandon;andtherewasaskyofmoltenleadabovethem,notashadowanywhere,nothingbutdwarfolivetreesandalmondtreeswithscantyfoliage.Andthenthedeliciousdrowsinessoffatigueontheirreturn,theirtriumphantbravadoathavingcoveredyetmoregroundthanonthepreciousjourney,thedelightofbeingnolongerconsciousofeffort,ofadvancingsolelybydintofstrengthacquired,spurringthemselvesonwithsometerriblemartialstrainwhichhelpedtomakeeverythinglikeadream.

AlreadyatthattimeClaude,inadditiontohispowder–flaskandcartridge–belt,tookwithhimanalbum,inwhichhesketchedlittlebitsofcountry,whileSandoz,onhisside,alwayshadsomefavouritepoetinhispocket.Theylivedinaperfectfrenzyofromanticism,wingedstrophesalternatedwithcoarsegarrisonstories,odeswereflung

upontheburning,flashing,luminousatmospherethatenwraptthem.Andwhenperchancetheycameuponasmallrivulet,borderedbyhalfadozenwillows,castinggreyshadowsonthesoilallablazewithcolour,theyatoncewentintotheseventhheaven.Theytherebythemselvesperformedthedramastheyknewbyheart,inflatingtheirvoiceswhenrepeatingthespeechesoftheheroes,andreducingthemtothemerestwhisperwhentheyrepliedasqueensandlove–sickmaidens.Onsuchdaysthesparrowswereleftinpeace.Inthatremoteprovince,amidstthesleepystupidityofthatsmalltown,theyhadthuslivedonfromtheageoffourteen,fullofenthusiasm,devouredbyapassionforliteratureandart.ThemagnificentscenariosdevisedbyVictorHugo,thegiganticphantasieswhichfoughtthereinamidstaceaselesscross–fireofantithesis,hadatfirsttransportedthemintothefulnessofepicglory;gesticulating,watchingthesundeclinebehindsomeruins,seeinglifepassbyamidstallthesuperbbutfalseglitterofafifthact.ThenMussethadcometounmanthemwithhispassionandhistears;theyheardtheirownheartsthrobinresponsetohis,anewworldopenedtothem—aworldmorehuman—thatconqueredthembyitscriesforpity,andofeternalmisery,whichhenceforththeyweretohearrisingfromallthings.Besides,theywerenotdifficulttoplease;theyshowedthevoracityofyouth,afuriousappetiteforallkindsofliterature,goodandbadalike.Soeagerweretheytoadmiresomething,thatoftenthemostexecrableworksthrewthemintoastateofexaltationsimilartothatwhichthepurestmasterpiecesproduce.

AndasSandoznowremarked,itwastheirgreatloveofbodilyexercise,theirveryrevelsofliteraturethathadprotectedthemagainstthenumbinginfluenceoftheirordinarysurroundings.Theyneverenteredacafe,theyhadahorrorofthestreets,evenpretendingtomoultinthemlikecagedeagles,whereastheirschoolfellowswerealreadyrubbingtheirelbowsoverthesmallmarbletablesandplayingatcardsfordrinks.Provinciallife,whichdraggedotherlads,whenstillyoung,withinitscoggedmechanism,thathabitofgoingtoone’sclub,ofspellingoutthelocalpaperfromitsheadingtothelastadvertisement,theeverlastinggameofdominoesnosoonerfinishedthanrenewed,thesamewalkattheself–samehourandeveralongthesameroads—allthatbrutifiesthemind,likeagrindstonecrushingthebrain,filledthemwithindignation,calledforththeirprotestations.Theypreferredtoscaletheneighbouringhillsinsearchofsomeunknownsolitaryspot,wheretheydeclaimedversesevenamidstdrenchingshowers,withoutdreamingofshelterintheirveryhatredoftown–life.TheyhadevenplannedanencampmentonthebanksoftheViorne,wheretheyweretolivelikesavages,happywithconstantbathing,andthecompanyoffiveorsixbooks,whichwouldamplysufficefortheirwants.Evenwomankindwastobestrictlybanishedfromthatcamp.Beingverytimidandawkwardinthepresenceofthegentlersex,theypretendedtotheasceticismofsuperiorintellects.FortwoyearsClaudehadbeeninlovewitha‘prenticehat–trimmer,whomeveryeveninghehadfollowedatadistance,buttowhomhehadneverdaredtoaddressaword.Sandoznurseddreamsofladiesmetwhiletravelling,beautifulgirlswhowouldsuddenlyspringupinsomeunknownwood,charmhimforawholeday,andmeltintoairatdusk.Theonlyloveadventurewhichtheyhadevermetwithstillevokedtheirlaughter,sosillydiditseemtothemnow.Itconsistedofaseriesofserenadeswhichtheyhadgiventotwoyoungladiesduringthetimewhenthey,theserenaders,hadformedpartofthecollegeband.Theypassedtheirnightsbeneathawindowplayingtheclarinetandthecornet–a–piston,andthusraisingadiscordantdinwhichfrightenedallthefolkoftheneighbourhood,untilonememorableeveningtheindignantparentshademptiedallthewaterpitchersofthe

familyoverthem.

Ah!thosewerehappydays,andhowlovingwasthelaughterwithwhichtheyrecalledthem.Onthewallsofthestudiohungaseriesofsketches,whichClaude,itsohappened,hadmadeduringarecenttripsouthward.Thusitseemedasiftheyweresurroundedbythefamiliarvistasofbrightblueskyoverhangingatawnycountry–side.Herestretchedaplaindottedwithlittlegreyisholivetreesasfarasarosynetworkofdistanthills.There,betweensunburntrussetslopes,theexhaustedViornewasalmostrunningdrybeneaththespanofanolddust–bepowderedbridge,withoutabitofgreen,nothingsaveafewbushes,dyingforwantofmoisture.Fartheron,themountaingorgeoftheInfernetsshoweditsyawningchasmamidsttumbledrocks,struckdownbylightning,ahugechaos,awilddesert,rollingstonybillowsasfarastheeyecouldreach.Thencameallsortsofwellrememberednooks:thevalleyofRepentance,narrowandshady,arefreshingoasisamidcalcinedfields;thewoodofLesTroisBons–Dieux,withhard,green,varnishedpinessheddingpitchytearsbeneaththeburningsun;thesheepwalkofBouffan,showingwhite,likeamosque,amidstafar–stretchingblood–redplain.Andtherewereyetbitsofblinding,sinuousroads;ravines,wheretheheatseemedeventowringbubblingperspirationfromthepebbles;stretchesofarid,thirstysand,drinkingupriversdropbydrop;molehills,goatpaths,andhillcrests,halflostintheazuresky.

‘Hallo!’exclaimedSandoz,turningtowardsonesketch,‘what’sthat?’

Claude,indignant,wavedhispalette.‘What!don’tyouremember?Wewereverynighbreakingournecksthere.SurelyyourecollectthedayweclamberedfromtheverybottomofJaumegardewithDubuche?Therockwasassmoothasyourhand,andwehadtoclingtoitwithournails,sothatatonemomentwecouldneithergetupnorgodownagain.Whenwewereonceatopandabouttocookourcutlets,we,youandI,nearlycametoblows.’

Sandoznowremembered.‘Yes,yes;eachhadtoroasthisowncutletonrosemarysticks,and,asminetookfire,youexasperatedmebychaffingmycutlet,whichwasbeingreducedtocinders.’

Theybothshookwithlaughter,untilthepainterresumedhiswork,gravelyconcluding,‘That’sallover,oldman.Thereistobenomoreidlingatpresent.’

Hespokethetruth.SincethethreeinseparableshadrealisedtheirdreamofmeetingtogetherinParis,whichtheywerebentuponconquering,theirlifehadbeenterriblyhard.Theyhadtriedtorenewthelongwalksofold.OncertainSundaymorningstheyhadstartedonfootfromtheFontainebleaugate,hadscouredthecopsesofVerrieres,goneasfarastheBievre,crossedthewoodsofMeudonandBellevue,andreturnedhomebywayofGrenelle.ButtheytaxedPariswithspoilingtheirlegs;theyscarcelyeverleftthepavementnow,entirelytakenupastheywerewiththeirstruggleforfortuneandfame.

FromMondaymorningtillSaturdaynightSandozsatfumingandfrettingatthemunicipalbuildingofthefifthArrondissementinadarkcorneroftheregistryofficeforbirths,rootedtohisstoolbythethoughtofhismother,whomhissalaryofahundredandfiftyfrancsamonthhelpedinsomefashiontokeep.Dubuche,anxioustopayhisparentstheinterestofthemoneyplacedonhishead,waseveronthelook–outforsomepettyjobsamongarchitects,outsidehisstudiesattheSchoolofArts.AsforClaude,thankstohis

thousandfrancsayear,hehadhisfullliberty;butthelatterdaysofeachmonthwereterribleenough,especiallyifhehadtosharethefag–endofhisallowance.Luckilyhewasbeginningtosellalittle;disposingoftinycanvases,attherateoftenandtwelvefrancsa–piece,toPapaMalgras,awarypicturedealer.Afterall,hepreferredstarvationtoturninghisartintomerecommercebymanufacturingportraitsoftradesmenandtheirwives;concoctingconventionalreligiouspicturesordaubingblindsforrestaurantsorsign–boardsforaccoucheuses.WhenfirsthehadreturnedtoParis,hehadrentedaverylargestudiointheImpassedesBourdonnais;buthehadmovedtotheQuaideBourbonfrommotivesofeconomy.Helivedtherelikeasavage,withanabsolutecontemptforeverythingthatwasnotpainting.Hehadfallenoutwithhisrelatives,whodisgustedhim;hehadevenceasedvisitinghisaunt,whokeptapork–butcher’sshopneartheCentralMarkets,becauseshelookedtooflourishingandplump.[5]Respectingthedownfallofhismother,whowasbeingeatenoutofdoorsanddrivenintothestreets,henursedasecretgrief.

SuddenlyheshoutedtoSandoz,‘Willyoubekindenoughnottotumbletopieces?’ButSandozdeclaredthathewasgettingstiff,andjumpedfromthecouchtostretchhislegsabit.Theytooktenminutes’rest,talkingmeanwhileaboutmanythings.Claudefeltcondescendinglygood–tempered.Whenhisworkwentsmoothlyhebrightenedupandbecametalkative;he,whopaintedwithhisteethset,andragedinwardlydirectlyhefeltthatnaturewasescapinghim.Hencehisfriendhadscarcelyresumedhisattitudebeforehewentonchattering,without,however,missingastrokeofhisbrush.

‘It’sgoingonallright,oldboy,isn’tit?Youlookallthereinit.Oh,thebrutes,I’lljustseewhetherthey’llrefusemethistime.Iammoresevereformyselfthantheyareforthemselves,I’msureofit;andwheneverIpassoneofmyownpictures,it’smoreseriousthanifithadpassedbeforeallthehangingcommitteesonearth.Youknowmypictureofthemarkets,withthetwourchinstumblingaboutonaheapofvegetables?Well,I’vescratcheditallout,itdidn’tcomeright.IfoundthatIhadgotholdofabeastlymachine,[6]adealtooheavyformystrength.But,neveryoufear,I’lltakethesubjectupagainsomeday,whenIknowbetter,andI’lltakeupothers,machineswhichwillknockthemallcock–a–hoopwithsurprise.’

Hemadeamagnificentgesture,asiftosweepawholecrowdaway;emptiedatubeofcobaltonhispalette;andthenbegantojeer,askingwhathisfirstmasterwouldsaytoapicturelikethis?Hisfirstmasterindeed,PapaBelloque,aretiredinfantrycaptain,withonearm,whoforaquarterofacenturyhadtaughtdrawingtotheyouthofPlassansinoneofthegalleriesoftheMuseum!Then,inParis,hadn’tthecelebratedBerthou,thepainterof‘NerointheCircus’—Berthou,whoselessonshehadattendedforsixlongmonths—toldhimascoreoftimesthathewouldneverbeabletodoanything?Howhenowregrettedthosesixmonthswastedinidioticefforts,absurd‘studies,’undertheironruleofamanwhoseideasdifferedsomuchfromhisown.HeatlastbegantoholdforthagainstworkingattheLouvre.Hewould,hesaid,soonerchophishandoffthanreturntheretospoilhisperceptionofnaturebyundertakingoneofthosecopieswhichforeverdimthevisionoftheworldinwhichonelives.

Wasthereaughtelseinartthantherenderingofwhatonefeltwithinoneself?Wasnotthewholeofartreducedtoplacingawomaninfrontofone—andthenportrayingher

accordingtothefeelingsthatsheinspired?Wasnotabunchofcarrots—yes,abunchofcarrots—studiedfromnature,andpaintedunaffectedly,inapersonalstyle,worthalltheever–lastingsmudgesoftheSchoolofArts,allthattobacco–juicepainting,cookedupaccordingtocertaingivenrecipes?Thedaywouldcomewhenonecarrot,originallyrendered,wouldleadtoarevolution.ItwasbecauseofthisthathenowcontentedhimselfwithgoingtotheBoutinstudio,afreestudio,keptbyaformermodel,intheRuedelaHuchette.Whenhehadpaidhistwentyfrancshewasputinfrontofasmanymenandwomenashecaredfor,andsetabouthisworkwithawill,neverthinkingofeatingordrinking,butstrugglingunrestinglywithnature,madalmostwiththeexcitementofwork,bythesideofapackofdandieswhoaccusedhimofignorantlaziness,andarrogantlypratedabouttheir‘studies,’becausetheycopiednosesandmouths,undertheeyeofamaster.

‘Listentothis,oldman:whenoneofthosewhipper–snapperscanbuildupatorsolikethatoneoveryonder,hemaycomeupandtellme,andwe’llhaveatalktogether.’

Withtheendofhisbrushhepointedtoastudyofthenude,suspendedfromthewallnearthedoor.Itwasreallymagnificent,fullofmasterlybreadthofcolouring.Byitssideweresomeotheradmirablebits,agirl’sfeetexquisiteintheirdelicatetruthfulness,andawoman’strunkwithquiveringsatin–likeskin.Inhisraremomentsofcontenthefeltproudofthosefewstudies,theonlyoneswhichsatisfiedhim,which,asitwere,foretoldagreatpainter,admirablygifted,buthamperedbysuddenandinexplicablefitsofimpotency.

Dealingsabre–likestrokesatthevelveteenjacket,hecontinuedlashinghimselfintoexcitementwithhisuncompromisingtheorieswhichrespectednobody:

‘Theyareallsomanydaubersofpennyprints,whohavestolentheirreputations;asetofidiotsorknavesontheirkneesbeforepublicimbecility!Notoneamongthemdarestogivethephilistinesaslapintheface.And,whileweareaboutit,youknowthatoldIngresturnsmesickwithhisglairypainting.Nevertheless,he’sabrick,andapluckyfellow,andItakeoffmyhattohim,forhedidnotcareacurseforanybody,andheusedtodrawliketheverydevil.Heendedbymakingtheidiots,whonowadaysbelievetheyunderstandhim,swallowthatdrawingofhis.Afterhimthereareonlytwoworthspeakingof,DelacroixandCourbet.Theothersareonlynumskulls.Oh,thatoldromanticlion,thecarriageofhim!Hewasadecoratorwhoknewhowtomakethecoloursblaze.Andwhatagrasphehad!HewouldhavecoveredeverywallinParisiftheyhadlethim;hispaletteboiled,andboiledover.Iknowverywellthatitwasonlysomuchphantasmagoria.Nevermind,Ilikeitforallthat,asitwasneededtosettheSchoolonfire.Thencametheother,astoutworkman—thatone,thetruestpainterofthecentury,andaltogetherclassicalbesides,afactwhichnotoneofthedullardsunderstood.Theyyelled,ofcourse;theyshoutedaboutprofanationandrealism,when,afterall,therealismwasonlyinthesubject.Theperceptionremainedthatoftheoldmasters,andtheexecutionresumedandcontinuedthebestbitsofworkonecanfindinourpublicgalleries.BothDelacroixandCourbetcameatthepropertime.Eachmadeastrideforward.Andnow—ah,now!’

Heceasedspeakinganddrewbackafewstepstojudgeoftheeffectofhispicture,becomingabsorbedincontemplationforamoment,andthenresuming:

‘Yes,nowadayswewantsomethingdifferent—what,Idon’texactlyknow.IfIdid,and

coulddoit,Ishouldbecleverindeed.Nooneelsewouldbeintheracewithme.AllIdoknowandfeelisthatDelacroix’sgrandromanticscenesarefounderingandsplitting,thatCourbet’sblackpaintingalreadyreeksofthemustinessofastudiowhichthesunneverpenetrates.Youunderstandme,don’tyou?We,perhaps,wantthesun,theopenair,aclear,youthfulstyleofpainting,menandthingssuchastheyappearinthereallight.Inshort,Imyselfamunabletosaywhatourpaintingshouldbe;thepaintingthatoureyesofto–dayshouldexecuteandbehold.’

Hisvoiceagainfell;hestammeredandfoundhimselfunabletoexplaintheformulasofthefuturethatwererisingwithinhim.Deepsilencecamewhilehecontinuedworkingatthevelveteenjacket,quiveringallthetime.

Sandozhadbeenlisteningtohimwithoutstirringfromhisposition.Hisbackwasstillturned,andhesaidslowly,asifspeakingtothewallinakindofdream:

‘No;onedoesnotknow,andstillweoughttoknow.Buteachtimeaprofessorhaswantedtoimpressatruthuponme,Ihavemistrustfullyrevolted,thinking:“Heiseitherdeceivinghimselfordeceivingme.”Theirideasexasperateme.Itseemstomethattruthislarger,moregeneral.Howbeautifulwoulditbeifonecoulddevotethewholeofone’sexistencetoonesinglework,intowhichonewouldendeavourtoputeverything,thebeastsofthefieldaswellasmankind;inshort,akindofimmenseark.Andnotintheorderindicatedbymanualsofphilosophy,oraccordingtotheidiotichierarchyonwhichweprideourselves,butaccordingtothefullcurrentoflife;aworldinwhichweshouldbenothingmorethananaccident,inwhichthepassingcur,eventhestonesoftheroads,wouldcompleteandexplainus.Insum,thegrandwhole,withoutloworhigh,orcleanorunclean,suchasitindeedisinreality.Itiscertainlytosciencethatpoetsandnovelistsoughttoaddressthemselves,foritistheonlypossiblesourceofinspirationto–day.Butwhatarewetoborrowfromit?Howarewetomarchinitscompany?ThemomentIbegintothinkaboutthatsortofthingIfeelthatIamfloundering.Ah,ifIonlyknew,whataseriesofbooksIwouldhurlattheheadsofthecrowd!’

Healsobecamesilent.Thepreviouswinterhehadpublishedhisfirstbook:aseriesoflittlesketches,broughtfromPlassans,amongwhichonlyafewroughernotesindicatedthattheauthorwasamutineer,apassionateloveroftruthandpower.Andlatelyhehadbeenfeelinghisway,questioninghimselfwhileallsortsofconfusedideasthrobbedinhisbrain.Atfirst,smittenwiththethoughtofundertakingsomethingherculean,hehadplannedagenesisoftheuniverse,inthreephasesorparts;thecreationnarratedaccordingtoscience;mankindsuperveningattheappointedhourandplayingitspartinthechainofbeingsandevents;thenthefuture—beingsconstantlyfollowingoneanother,andfinishingthecreationoftheworldbytheendlesslabouroflife.Buthehadcalmeddowninpresenceoftheventuresomehypothesesofthisthirdphase;andhewasnowlookingoutforamorerestricted,morehumanframework,inwhich,however,hisvastambitionmightfindroom.

‘Ah,tobeabletoseeandpainteverything,’exclaimedClaude,afteralonginterval.‘Tohavemilesuponmilesofwallstocover,todecoratetherailwaystations,themarkets,themunicipaloffices,everythingthatwillbebuilt,whenarchitectsarenolongeridiots.Onlystrongheadsandstrongmuscleswillbewanted,fortherewillbenolackofsubjects.Lifesuchasitrunsaboutthestreets,thelifeoftherichandthepoor,inthemarketplaces,on

therace–courses,ontheboulevards,inthepopulousalleys;andeverytradebeingplied,andeverypassionportrayedinfulldaylight,andthepeasants,too,andthebeastsofthefieldsandthelandscapes—ah!you’llseeitall,unlessIamadownrightbrute.Myveryhandsareitchingtodoit.Yes!thewholeofmodernlife!FrescoesashighasthePantheon!AseriesofcanvasesbigenoughtobursttheLouvre!’

Whenevertheywerethrowntogetherthepainterandtheauthorgenerallyreachedthisstateofexcitement.Theyspurredeachothermutually,theywentmadwithdreamsofglory;andtherewassuchaburstofyouth,suchapassionforworkabouttheirplans,thattheythemselvesoftensmiledafterwardsatthosegreat,prouddreamswhichseemedtoendowthemwithsuppleness,strength,andspirit.

Claude,whohadsteppedbackasfarasthewall,remainedleaningagainstit,andgazingathiswork.Seeingwhich,Sandoz,overcomebyfatigue,leftthecouchandjoinedhim.Thenbothlookedatthepicturewithoutsayingaword.Thegentlemaninthevelveteenjacketwasentirelyroughedin.Hishand,moreadvancedthantherest,furnishedaprettyfreshpatchoffleshcolouramidthegrass,andthedarkcoatstoodoutsovigorouslythatthelittlesilhouettesinthebackground,thetwolittlewomenwrestlinginthesunlight,seemedtohaveretreatedfurtherintotheluminousquiveringoftheglade.Theprincipalfigure,therecumbentwoman,asyetscarcelymorethanoutlined,floatedaboutlikesomeaerialcreatureseenindreams,someeagerlydesiredEvespringingfromtheearth,withherfeaturesvaguelysmilingandhereyelidsclosed.

‘Well,now,whatareyougoingtocallit?’askedSandoz.

’TheOpenAir,’repliedClaude,somewhatcurtly.

Thetitlesoundedrathertechnicaltothewriter,who,inspiteofhimself,wassometimestemptedtointroduceliteratureintopictorialart.

’TheOpenAir!thatdoesn’tsuggestanything.’

‘Thereisnooccasionforittosuggestanything.Somewomenandamanarereposinginaforestinthesunlight.Doesnotthatsuffice?Don’tfret,there’senoughinittomakeamasterpiece.’

Hethrewbackhisheadandmutteredbetweenhisteeth:‘Dashitall!it’sveryblackstill.Ican’tgetDelacroixoutofmyeye,dowhatIwill.Andthenthehand,that’sCourbet’smanner.Everyoneofusdabshisbrushintotheromanticsaucenowandthen.Wehadtoomuchofitinouryouth,weflounderedinituptoourverychins.Weneedajollygoodwashtogetclearofit.’

Sandozshruggedhisshoulderswithagestureofdespair.HealsobewailedthefactthathehadbeenbornatwhathecalledtheconfluenceofHugoandBalzac.Nevertheless,Clauderemainedsatisfied,fullofthehappyexcitementofasuccessfulsitting.IfhisfriendcouldgivehimtwoorthreemoreSundaysthemaninthejacketwouldbeallthere.Hehadenoughofhimforthepresent.Bothbegantojoke,for,asarule,Claudealmostkilledhismodels,onlylettingthemgowhentheywerefainting,halfdeadwithfatigue.Hehimselfnowverynighdropped,hislegsbendingunderhim,andhisstomachempty.Andasthecuckooclockstruckfive,hesnatchedathiscrustofbreadanddevouredit.Thoroughlywornout,hebrokeitwithtremblingfingers,andscarcelychewedit,againstandingbefore

hispicture,pursuedbyhispassiontosuchadegreeastobeunconsciouseventhathewaseating.

‘Fiveo’clock,’saidSandoz,ashestretchedhimself,withhisarmsupraised.‘Let’sgoandhavedinner.Ah!herecomesDubuche,justintime.’

Therewasaknockatthedoor,andDubuchecamein.Hewasastoutyoungfellow,dark,withregularbutheavyfeatures,close–croppedhair,andmoustachesalreadyfull–blown.Heshookhandswithbothhisfriends,andstoppedbeforethepicture,lookingnonplussed.Inrealitythatharum–scarumstyleofpaintingupsethim,suchwastheevenbalanceofhisnature,suchhisreverenceasasteadystudentfortheestablishedformulasofart;anditwasonlyhisfeelingoffriendshipwhich,asarule,preventedhimfromcriticising.Butthistimehiswholebeingrevoltedvisibly.

‘Well,what’sthematter?Doesn’titsuityou?’askedSandoz,whowaswatchinghim.

‘Yes,ohyes,it’sverywellpainted—but—’

‘Well,spititout.Whatisitthatrufflesyou?’

‘Notmuch,onlythegentlemanisfullydressed,andthewomenarenot.Peoplehaveneverseenanythinglikethatbefore.’

Thissufficedtomakeboththeotherswild.Why,weretherenotahundredpicturesintheLouvrecomposedinpreciselythesameway?Hadn’tallParisandallthepaintersandtouristsoftheworldseenthem?Andbesides,ifpeoplehadneverseenanythinglikeit,theywouldseeitnow.Afterall,theydidn’tcareafigforthepublic!

Notintheleastdisconcertedbytheseviolentreplies,Dubucherepeatedquietly:‘Thepublicwon’tunderstand—thepublicwillthinkitindecorous—andsoitis!’

‘Youwretchedbourgeoisphilistine!’exclaimedClaude,exasperated.‘TheyaremakingafamousidiotofyouattheSchoolofArts.Youweren’tsuchafoolformerly.’

ThesewerethecurrentamenitiesofhistwofriendssinceDubuchehadattendedtheSchoolofArts.Hethereuponbeataretreat,ratherafraidoftheturnthedisputewastaking,andsavedhimselfbybelabouringthepaintersoftheSchool.Certainlyhisfriendswererightinonerespect,theSchoolpainterswererealidiots.Butasforthearchitects,thatwasadifferentmatter.Wherewashetogethistuition,ifnotthere?Besideshistuitionwouldnotpreventhimfromhavingideasofhisown,lateron.Wherewithheassumedaveryrevolutionaryair.

‘Allright,’saidSandoz,‘themomentyouapologise,let’sgoanddine.’

ButClaudehadmechanicallytakenupabrushandsettoworkagain.Besidethegentlemaninthevelveteenjacketthefigureoftherecumbentwomanseemedtobefadingaway.Feverishandimpatient,hetracedaboldoutlineroundhersoastobringherforward.

‘Areyoucoming?’

‘Inaminute;hangit,what’sthehurry?Justletmesetthisright,andI’llbewithyou.’

Sandozshookhisheadandthenremarkedveryquietly,lestheshouldstillfurtherannoyhim:‘Youdowrongtoworryyourselflikethat,oldman.Yes,youareknockedup,and

havehadnothingtoeat,andyou’llonlyspoilyourwork,asyoudidtheotherday.’

Butthepainterwavedhimoffwithapeevishgesture.Itwastheoldstory—hedidnotknowwhentoleaveoff;heintoxicatedhimselfwithworkinhiscravingforanimmediateresult,inordertoprovetohimselfthatheheldhismasterpieceatlast.Doubtshadjustdrivenhimtodespairinthemidstofhisdelightathavingterminatedasuccessfulsitting.Hadhedoneright,afterall,inmakingthevelveteenjacketsoprominent,andwouldhenotafterwardsfailtosecurethebrilliancywhichhewishedthefemalefiguretoshow?Ratherthanremaininsuspensehewouldhavedroppeddowndeadonthespot.FeverishlydrawingthesketchofChristine’sheadfromtheportfoliowherehehadhiddenit,hecompareditwiththepaintingonthecanvas,assistinghimself,asitwere,bymeansofthisdocumentderivedfromlife.

‘Hallo!’exclaimedDubuche,‘wheredidyougetthatfrom?Whoisit?’

Claude,startledbythequestions,didnotanswer;then,withoutreflecting,hewhousuallytoldthemeverything,brusquelylied,promptedbyadelicateimpulsetokeepsilentrespectingtheadventureofthenight.

‘Telluswhoitis?’repeatedthearchitect.

‘Nobodyatall—amodel.’

‘Amodel!averyyoungone,isn’tshe?Shelooksverynice.Iwishyouwouldgivemeheraddress.Notformyself,butforasculptorIknowwho’sonthelook–outforaPsyche.Haveyougottheaddressthere?’

ThereuponDubucheturnedtoacornerofthegreyishwallonwhichtheaddressesofseveralmodelswerewritteninchalk,haphazard.Thewomenparticularlylefttheircardsinthatway,inawkward,childishhandwriting.ZoePiedefer,7RueCampagne–Premiere,abigbrunette,whowasgettingrathertoostout,hadscrawledhersignmanualrightacrossthenamesoflittleFloreBeauchamp,32RuedeLaval,andJudithVaquez,69RueduRocher,aJewess,bothofwhomweretoothin.

‘Isay,haveyougottheaddress?’resumedDubuche.

ThenClaudeflewintoapassion.‘Don’tpesterme!Idon’tknowanddon’tcare.You’reanuisance,worryinglikethatjustwhenafellowwantstowork.’

Sandozhadnotsaidaword.Surprisedatfirst,hehadsoonsmiled.HewasgiftedwithmorepenetrationthanDubuche,sohegavehimaknowingnod,andtheythenbegantochaff.TheybeggedClaude’spardon;themomenthewantedtokeeptheyoungpersonforhispersonaluse,theywouldnotaskhimtolendher.Ha!ha!thescampwenthuntingaboutforprettymodels.Andwherehadhepickedupthatone?

Moreandmoreembarrassedbytheseremarks,Claudewentonfidgetting.‘Whatacoupleofidiotsyouare!’heexclaimed,‘Ifyouonlyknewwhatfoolsyouaremakingofyourselves.That’lldo.Youreallymakemesorryforbothofyou.’

Hisvoicesoundedsosternthattheybothbecamesilentimmediately,whilehe,afteroncemorescratchingoutthewoman’shead,drewitanewandbegantopaintitin,followinghissketchofChristine,butwithafeverish,unsteadytouchwhichwentatrandom.

‘Justgivemeanothertenminutes,willyou?’herepeated.‘Iwillroughintheshoulderstobereadyforto–morrow,andthenwe’llgodown.’

SandozandDubuche,knowingthatitwasofnousetopreventhimfromkillinghimselfinthisfashion,resignedthemselvestotheinevitable.Thelatterlightedhispipe,andflunghimselfonthecouch.Hewastheonlyoneofthethreewhosmoked;theothershadnevertakenkindlytotobacco,alwaysfeelingqualmishafteracigar.AndwhenDubuchewasstretchedonhisback,hiseyesturnedtowardsthecloudsofsmokeheraised,hebegantotalkabouthimselfinaninterminablemonotonousfashion.Ah!thatconfoundedParis,howonehadtoworkone’sfingerstotheboneinordertogeton.Herecalledthefifteenmonthsofapprenticeshiphehadspentwithhismaster,thecelebratedDequersonniere,aformergrand–prizeman,nowarchitectoftheCivilBranchofPublicWorks,anofficeroftheLegionofHonourandamemberoftheInstitute,whosechiefarchitecturalperformance,thechurchofSt.Mathieu,wasacrossbetweenapastry–cook’smouldandaclockintheso–calledFirstEmpirestyle.Agoodsortoffellow,afterall,wasthisDequersonnierewhomDubuchechaffed,whileinwardlysharinghisreverencefortheoldclassicalformulas.However,butforhisfellow–pupils,theyoungmanwouldnothavelearntmuchatthestudiointheRueduFour,forthemasteronlypaidarunningvisittotheplacesomethreetimesaweek.Asetofferociousbrutes,werethosecomradesofhis,whohadmadehislifejollyhardinthebeginning,butwho,atleast,hadtaughthimhowtoprepareasurface,outline,andwashinaplan.Andhowoftenhadhehadtocontenthimselfwithacupofchocolateandarollfordejeunerinordertopaythenecessaryfive–and–twentyfrancstothesuperintendent!Andthesheetsofpaperhehadlaboriouslysmudged,andthehourshehadspentinporingoverbooksbeforehehaddaredtopresenthimselfattheSchool!Andhehadnarrowlyescapedbeingpluckedinspiteofallhisassiduousendeavours.Helackedimagination,andthedrawingshesubmitted,acaryatideandasummerdining–room,bothextremelymediocreperformances,hadclassedhimatthebottomofthelist.Fortunately,hehadmadeupforthisinhisoralexaminationwithhislogarithms,geometry,andhistoryofarchitecture,forhewasverystronginthescientificparts.NowthathewasattendingtheSchoolasasecond–classstudent,hehadtotoilandmoilinordertosecureafirst–classdiploma.Itwasadog’slife,therewasnoendtoit,saidhe.

Hestretchedhislegsapart,highuponthecushions,andsmokedvigorouslyandregularly.

‘Whatwiththeircoursesofperspective,ofdescriptivegeometry,ofstereotomy,ofbuilding,andofthehistoryofart—ah!uponmyword,theydomakeoneblackenpaperwithnotes.Andeverymonththereisacompetitiveexaminationinarchitecture,sometimesasimplesketch,atothersacompletedesign.There’snotimeforpleasureifafellowwishestopasshisexaminationsandsecurethenecessaryhonourablementions,especiallyif,besidesallthat,hehastofindtimetoearnhisbread.Asformyself,it’salmostkillingme.’

Oneofthecushionshavingslippeduponthefloor,hefisheditupwithhisfeet.‘Allthesame,I’mlucky.Therearesomanyofusscouringthetowneverydaywithoutgettingthesmallestjob.ThedaybeforeyesterdayIdiscoveredanarchitectwhoworksforalargecontractor.Youcanhavenoideaofsuchanignoramusofanarchitect—adownrightnumskull,incapableevenoftracingaplan.Hegivesmetwenty–fivesousanhour,andI

sethishousesstraightforhim.Itcamejustintime,too,formymothersentmewordthatshewasquiteclearedout.Poormother,whatalotofmoneyIhavetorefundher!’

AsDubuchewasevidentlytalkingtohimself,chewingthecudofhiseverydaythoughts—hisconstantthoughtsofmakingarapidfortune—Sandozdidnoteventroubletolistentohim.Hehadopenedthelittlewindow,andseatedhimselfonalevelwiththeroof,forhefeltoppressedbytheheatinthestudio.Butallatonceheinterruptedthearchitect.

‘Isay,areyoucomingtodinneronThursday?Alltheotherfellowswillbethere—Fagerolles,Mahoudeau,Jory,Gagniere.’

EveryThursday,quiteabandmetatSandoz’s:friendsfromPlassansandothersmetinParis—revolutionariestoaman,andallanimatedbythesamepassionateloveofart.

‘NextThursday?No,Ithinknot,’answeredDubuche.

‘Iamobligedtogotoadanceatafamily’sIknow.’

‘Whereyouexpecttogetholdofadowry,Isuppose?’

‘Well,itwouldn’tbesuchabadspec.’

Heshooktheashesfromhispipeontohisleftpalm,andthen,suddenlyraisinghisvoice—‘Ialmostforgot.IhavehadaletterfromPouillaud.’

‘You,too!—well,Ithinkhe’sprettywelldonefor,Pouillaud.Anothergoodfellowgonewrong.’

‘Whygonewrong?He’llsucceedhisfather;he’llspendhismoneyquietlydownthere.Hewritesrationallyenough.Ialwayssaidhe’dshowusathingortwo,inspiteofallhispracticaljokes.Ah!thatbeastofaPouillaud.’

Sandoz,furious,wasabouttoreply,whenadespairingoathfromClaudestoppedhim.Thelatterhadnotopenedhislipssincehehadsoobstinatelyresumedhiswork.Toallappearancehehadnotevenlistened.

‘Curseit—Ihavefailedagain.Decidedly,I’mabrute,Ishallneverdoanything.’Andinafitofmadragehewantedtorushathispictureanddashhisfistthroughit.Hisfriendshadtoholdhimback.Why,itwassimplychildishtogetintosuchapassion.Wouldmattersbeimprovedwhen,tohismortalregret,hehaddestroyedhiswork?Stillshaking,herelapsedintosilence,andstaredatthecanvaswithanardentfixedgazethatblazedwithallthehorribleagonybornofhispowerlessness.Hecouldnolongerproduceanythingclearorlife–like;thewoman’sbreastwasgrowingpastywithheavycolouring;thatfleshwhich,inhisfancy,oughttohaveglowed,wassimplybecominggrimy;hecouldnotevensucceedingettingacorrectfocus.Whatonearthwasthematterwithhisbrainthathehearditburstingasunder,asitwere,amidsthisvainefforts?Washelosinghissightthathewasnolongerabletoseecorrectly?Werehishandsnolongerhisownthattheyrefusedtoobeyhim?Andthushewentonwindinghimselfup,irritatedbythestrangehereditarylesionwhichsometimessogreatlyassistedhiscreativepowers,butatothersreducedhimtoastateofsteriledespair,suchastomakehimforgetthefirstelementsofdrawing.Ah,tofeelgiddywithvertiginousnausea,andyettoremaintherefullofafuriouspassiontocreate,whenthepowertodosofledwitheverythingelse,wheneverythingseemedtofounderaroundhim—theprideofwork,thedreamt–ofglory,thewholeofhisexistence!

‘Lookhere,oldboy,’saidSandozatlast,‘wedon’twanttoworryyou,butit’shalf–pastsix,andwearestarving.Bereasonable,andcomedownwithus.’

Claudewascleaningacornerofhispalette.Thenheemptiedsomemoretubesonit,and,inavoicelikethunder,repliedwithonesingleword,‘No.’

Forthenexttenminutesnobodyspoke;thepainter,besidehimself,wrestledwithhispicture,whilsthisfriendsremainedanxiousatthisattack,whichtheydidnotknowhowtoallay.Then,astherecameaknockatthedoor,thearchitectwenttoopenit.

‘Hallo,it’sPapaMalgras.’

Malgras,thepicture–dealer,wasathick–setindividual,withclose–cropped,brush–like,whitehair,andaredsplotchyface.Hewaswrappedinaverydirtyoldgreencoat,thatmadehimlooklikeanuntidycabman.Inahuskyvoice,heexclaimed:‘Ihappenedtopassalongthequay,ontheothersideoftheway,andIsawthatgentlemanatthewindow.SoIcameup.’

Claude’scontinuedsilencemadehimpause.Thepainterhadturnedtohispictureagainwithanimpatientgesture.Notthatthissilenceinanywayembarrassedthenewcomer,who,standingerectonhissturdylegsandfeelingquiteathome,carefullyexaminedthenewpicturewithhisbloodshoteyes.Withoutanyceremony,hepassedjudgmentuponitinonephrase—halfironic,halfaffectionate:‘Well,well,there’samachine.’

Then,seeingthatnobodysaidanything,hebegantostrollroundthestudio,lookingatthepaintingsonthewalls.

PapaMalgras,beneathhisthicklayerofgreaseandgrime,wasreallyaverycutecustomer,withtasteandscentforgoodpainting.Heneverwastedhistimeorlosthiswayamongmeredaubers;hewentstraight,asiffrominstinct,toindividualists,whosetalentwascontestedstill,butwhosefuturefamehisflaming,drunkard’snosesniffedfromafar.Addedtothishewasaferocioushandatbargaining,anddisplayedallthecunningofasavageinhiseffortstosecure,forasong,thepicturesthathecoveted.True,hehimselfwassatisfiedwithveryhonestprofits,twentypercent.,thirtyatthemost.Hebasedhiscalculationsonquicklyturningoverhissmallcapital,neverpurchasinginthemorningwithoutknowingwheretodisposeofhispurchaseatnight.Asasuperbliar,moreover,hehadnoequal.

Pausingnearthedoor,beforethestudiesfromthenude,paintedattheBoutinstudio,hecontemplatedtheminsilenceforafewmoments,hiseyesglisteningthewhilewiththeenjoymentofaconnoisseur,whichhisheavyeyelidstriedtohide.Assuredly,hethought,therewasagreatdealoftalentandsentimentoflifeaboutthatbigcrazyfellowClaude,whowastedhistimeinpaintinghugestretchesofcanvaswhichnoonewouldbuy.Thegirl’sprettylegs,theadmirablypaintedwoman’strunk,filledthedealerwithdelight.Buttherewasnosaleforthatkindofstuff,andhehadalreadymadehischoice—atinysketch,anookofthecountryroundPlassans,atoncedelicateandviolent—whichhepretendednottonotice.Atlasthedrewnear,andsaid,inanoff–handway:

‘What’sthis?Ah!yes,Iknow,oneofthethingsyoubroughtbackwithyoufromtheSouth.It’stoocrude.IstillhavethetwoIboughtofyou.’

Andhewentoninmellow,long–windedphrases.‘You’llperhapsnotbelieveme,

MonsieurLantier,butthatsortofthingdoesn’tsellatall—notatall.I’veasetofroomsfullofthem.I’malwaysafraidofsmashingsomethingwhenIturnround.Ican’tgoonlikethat,honourbright;Ishallhavetogointoliquidation,andIshallendmydaysinthehospital.Youknowme,eh?myheartisbiggerthanmypocket,andthere’snothingIlikebetterthantoobligeyoungmenoftalentlikeyourself.Oh,forthematterofthat,you’vegottalent,andIkeepontellingthemso—nay,shoutingittothem—butwhat’sthegood?Theywon’tnibble,theywon’tnibble!’

Hewastryingtheemotionaldodge;then,withthespiritofamanabouttodosomethingrash:‘Well,itsha’n’tbesaidthatIcameintowasteyourtime.Whatdoyouwantforthatroughsketch?’

Claude,stillirritated,waspaintingnervously.Hedrylyanswered,withouteventurninghishead:‘Twentyfrancs.’

‘Nonsense;twentyfrancs!youmustbemad.Yousoldmetheotherstenfrancsa–piece—andto–dayIwon’tgiveacoppermorethaneightfrancs.’

Asarulethepainterclosedwithhimatonce,ashamedandhumbledatthismiserablechaffering,gladalsotogetalittlemoneynowandthen.Butthistimehewasobstinate,andtooktoinsultingthepicture–dealer,who,givingtitfortat,allatoncedroppedtheformal‘you’toassumetheglib‘thou,’deniedhistalent,overwhelmedhimwithinvective,andtaxedhimwithingratitude.Meanwhile,however,hehadtakenfromhispocketthreesuccessivefive–francpieces,which,asifplayingatchuck–farthing,heflungfromadistanceuponthetable,wheretheyrattledamongthecrockery.

‘One,two,three—notonemore,dosthear?forthereisalreadyonetoomany,andI’lltakecaretogetitback;I’lldeductitfromsomethingelseofthine,asIlive.Fifteenfrancsforthat!Thouartwrong,mylad,andthou’ltbesorryforthisdirtytrick.’

Quiteexhausted,Claudelethimtakedownthelittlecanvas,whichdisappearedasifbymagicinhiscapaciousgreencoat.Haditdroppedintoaspecialpocket,orwasitreposingonPapaMalgras’amplechest?Nottheslightestprotuberanceindicateditswhereabouts.

Havingaccomplishedhisstrokeofbusiness,PapaMalgrasabruptlycalmeddownandwenttowardsthedoor.Buthesuddenlychangedhismindandcameback.‘Justlisten,Lantier,’hesaid,inthehoneyestoftones;‘Iwantalobsterpainted.Youreallyowemethatmuchafterfleecingme.I’llbringyouthelobster,you’llpaintmeabitofstilllifefromit,andkeepitforyourpains.Youcaneatitwithyourfriends.It’ssettled,isn’tit?’

AtthisproposalSandozandDubuche,whohadhithertolistenedinquisitively,burstintosuchloudlaughterthatthepicture–dealerhimselfbecamegay.Thoseconfoundedpainters,theydidthemselvesnogood,theysimplystarved.Whatwouldhavebecomeofthelazybeggarsifhe,PapaMalgras,hadn’tbroughtalegofmuttonnowandthen,oranicefreshplaice,oralobster,withitsgarnishofparsley?

‘You’llpaintmemylobster,eh,Lantier?Muchobliged.’Andhestationedhimselfanewbeforethelargecanvas,withhiswontedsmileofmingledderisionandadmiration.Andatlasthewentoff,repeating,‘Well,well,there’samachine.’

Claudewantedtotakeuphispaletteandbrushesoncemore.Buthislegsrefusedtheirservice;hisarmsfelltohisside,stiff,asifpinionedtherebysomeoccultforce.Inthe

intensemelancholysilencethathadfollowedthedinofthedisputehestaggered,distracted,bereftofsightbeforehisshapelesswork.

‘I’mdonefor,I’mdonefor,’hegasped.‘Thatbrutehasfinishedmeoff!’

Theclockhadjuststruckseven;hehadbeenatworkforeightmortalhourswithouttastinganythingbutacrustofbread,withouttakingamoment’srest,everonhislegs,shakenbyfeverishexcitement.Andnowthesunwassetting,shadowsbegantodarkenthestudio,whichinthegloamingassumedamostmelancholyaspect.Whenthelightwentdownlikethisonthecrisisofabadday’swork,itseemedtoClaudeasifthesunwouldneverriseagain,buthadforevercarriedlifeandallthejubilantgaietyofcolouraway.

‘Come,’imploredSandoz,withallthegentlenessofbrotherlycompassion.‘Come,there’sagoodfellow.’

EvenDubucheadded,‘You’llseemoreclearlyintoitto–morrow.Comeanddine.’

ForamomentClauderefusedtosurrender.Hestoodrootedtothespot,deaftotheirfriendlyvoices,andfiercelyobstinate.

Whatdidhewanttodothen,sincehistiredfingerswerenolongerabletograspthebrush?Hedidnotknow,but,howeverpowerlesshemightbe,hewasgnawedbyamadcravingtogoonworkingstillandtocreateinspiteofeverything.Evenifhedidnothing,hewouldatleaststaythere,hewouldnotvacatethespot.Allatonce,however,hemadeuphismind,shakenthewhileasbyabigsob.Heclutchedfirmlyholdofhisbroadestpalette–knife,and,withonedeep,slowsweep,heobliteratedthewoman’sheadandbosom.Itwasveritablemurder,apoundingawayofhumanflesh;thewholedisappearedinamurky,muddymash.Bythesideofthegentlemaninthedarkjacket,amidstthebrightverdure,wherethetwolittlewrestlerssolightlytintedweredisportingthemselves,thereremainednaughtofthenude,headless,breastlesswomanbutamutilatedtrunk,avaguecadaverousstump,anindistinct,lifelesspatchofvisionaryflesh.

SandozandDubuchewerealreadydescendingthestairswithagreatclatter,andClaudefollowedthem,fleeinghiswork,inagonyathavingtoleaveitthusscarredwithagapinggash.

[4]Gervaiseof‘TheDramShop’(L’Assommoir).—ED.[5]ThisauntisLisaof‘TheFatandtheThin’(LeVentredeParis)inafewchaptersofwhichClaudefigures.—ED.[6]Infamiliarconversation,Frenchartists,playwrights,andnovelistsinvariablycalltheirproductionsbytheslangterm‘machines.’—ED.

IIITHEbeginningoftheweekproveddisastroustoClaude.Hehadrelapsedintooneofthoseperiodsofself–doubtthatmadehimhatepainting,withthehatredofaloverbetrayed,whooverwhelmsthefaithlessonewithinsultsalthoughtorturedbyanuncontrollabledesiretoworshipheryetagain.SoontheThursday,afterthreefrightfuldaysoffruitlessandsolitarybattling,helefthomeasearlyaseightinthemorning,banginghisdoorviolently,andfeelingsodisgustedwithhimselfthathesworehewouldnevertakeupabrushagain.Whenhewasunhingedbyoneoftheseattackstherewasbutoneremedy,hehadtoforgethimself,and,todoso,itwasneedfulthatheshouldlookupsomecomradeswithwhomtoquarrel,and,aboveall,walkaboutandtrudgeacrossParis,untiltheheatandodourofbattlerisingfromherpaving–stonesputheartintohimagain.

Thatday,likeeveryotherThursday,hewastodineatSandoz’s,incompanywiththeirfriends.Butwhatwashetodountiltheevening?Theideaofremainingbyhimself,ofeatinghisheartout,disgustedhim.Hewouldhavegonestraighttohisfriend,onlyheknewthatthelattermustbeathisoffice.ThenthethoughtofDubucheoccurredtohim,buthehesitated,fortheiroldfriendshiphadlatelybeencoolingdown.Hefeltthatthefraternityoftheearliertimesofeffortnolongerexistedbetweenthem.HeguessedthatDubuchelackedintelligence,hadbecomecovertlyhostile,andwasoccupiedwithambitionsdifferentfromhisown.However,he,Claude,mustgosomewhere.Sohemadeuphismind,andrepairedtotheRueJacob,wherethearchitectrentedasmallroomonthesixthfloorofabigfrigid–lookinghouse.

Claudewasalreadyonthelandingofthesecondfloor,whenthedoorkeeper,callinghimback,snappishlytoldhimthatM.Dubuchewasnotathome,andhad,infact,stayedoutallnight.Theyoungmanslowlydescendedthestairsandfoundhimselfinthestreet,stupefied,asitwere,bysoprodigiousaneventasanescapadeonthepartofDubuche.Itwasapieceofinconceivablebadluck.Foramomenthestrolledalongaimlessly;but,ashepausedatthecorneroftheRuedeSeine,notknowingwhichwaytogo,hesuddenlyrecollectedwhathisfriendhadtoldhimaboutacertainnightspentattheDequersonnierestudio—anightofterriblehardwork,theeveofthedayonwhichthepupils’designshadtobedepositedattheSchoolofArts.AtoncehewalkedtowardstheRueduFour,wherethestudiowassituated.HithertohehadcarefullyabstainedfromcallingthereforDubuche,fromfearoftheyellswithwhichoutsidersweregreeted.Butnowhemadestraightfortheplacewithoutflinching,histimiditydisappearingsothoroughlybeforetheanguishoflonelinessthathefeltreadytoundergoanyamountofinsultcouldhebutsecureacompanioninmisfortune.

ThestudiowassituatedinthenarrowestpartoftheRueduFour,atthefarendofadecrepit,tumble–downbuilding.Claudehadtocrosstwoevil–smellingcourtyardstoreachathird,acrosswhichranasortofbigclosedshed,ahugeout–houseofboardandplasterwork,whichhadonceservedasapacking–casemaker’sworkshop.Fromoutside,throughthefourlargewindows,whosepanesweredaubedwithacoatingofwhitelead,nothingcouldbeseenbutthebarewhitewashedceiling.

Havingpushedthedooropen,Clauderemainedmotionlessonthethreshold.Theplacestretchedoutbeforehim,withitsfourlongtablesrangedlengthwisetothewindows—broaddoubletablestheywere,whichhadswarmsofstudentsoneitherside,andwerelitteredwithmoistsponges,paintsaucers,ironcandlesticks,waterbowls,andwoodenboxes,inwhicheachpupilkepthiswhitelinenblouse,hiscompasses,andcolours.Inonecorner,thestove,neglectedsincethepreviouswinter,stoodrustingbythesideofapileofcokethathadnotbeensweptaway;whileattheotherendalargeironcisternwithatapwassuspendedbetweentwotowels.Andamidstthebareuntidinessofthisshed,theeyewasespeciallyattractedbythewallswhich,above,displayedalitterofplastercastsrangedinhaphazardfashiononshelves,anddisappearedlowerdownbehindforestsofT–squaresandbevels,andpilesofdrawingboards,tiedtogetherwithwebbingstraps.Bitbybit,suchpartsofthepartitionsashadremainedunoccupiedhadbecomecoveredwithinscriptionsanddrawings,aconstantlyrisingflotsamandjetsamofscrawlstracedthereasonthemarginofanever–openbook.Therewerecaricaturesofthestudentsthemselves,coarsewitticismsfittomakeagendarmeturnpale,epigrammaticsentences,additionsums,addresses,andsoforth;while,aboveallelse,writteninbigletters,andoccupyingthemostprominentplace,appearedthisinscription:‘Onthe7thofJune,Gorfudeclaredthathedidn’tcareahangforRome.—Signed,Godemard.’[7]

Claudewasgreetedwithagrowllikethatofwildbeastsdisturbedintheirlair.Whatkepthimmotionlesswasthestrangeaspectofthisplaceonthemorningofthe‘trucknight,’astheembryoarchitectstermedthecrucialnightoflabour.Sincethepreviousevening,thewholestudio,somesixtypupils,hadbeenshutupthere;thosewhohadnodesignstoexhibit—‘theniggers,’astheywerecalledremainingtohelptheothers,thecompetitorswho,beingbehindtime,hadtoknockofftheworkofaweekinadozenhours.Already,atmidnight,theyhadstuffedthemselveswithbrawn,saveloys,andsimilarviands,washeddownwithcheapwine.Towardsoneo’clocktheyhadsecuredthecompanyofsome‘ladies’;and,withouttheworkabating,thefeasthadturnedintoaRomanorgy,blendedwithasmokingcompetition.Onthedamp,stainedfloorthereremainedagreatlitterofgreasypaperandbrokenbottles;whiletheatmospherereekedofburnttallow,musk,highlyseasonedsausages,andcheapbluishwine.

Andnowmanyvoicessavagelyyelled:‘Turnhimout.Oh,thatmug!Whatdoeshewant,thatguy?Turnhimout,turnhimout.’

ForamomentClaude,quitedazed,staggeredbeneaththeviolenceoftheonslaught.Buttheepithetsbecameviler,fortheacmeofelegance,evenforthemorerefinedamongtheseyoungfellows,wastorivalone’sfriendsinbeastlylanguage.Hewas,nevertheless,recoveringandbeginningtoanswer,whenDubucherecognisedhim.Thelatterturnedcrimson,forhedetestedthatkindofadventure.Hefeltashamedofhisfriend,andrushedtowardshim,amidstthejeers,whichwerenowlevelledathimself:

‘What,isityou?’hegasped.‘Itoldyounevertocomein.Justwaitformeaminuteintheyard.’

Atthatmoment,Claude,whowassteppingback,narrowlyescapedbeingknockeddownbyalittlehand–truckwhichtwobigfull–beardedfellowsbroughtupatagallop.Itwasfromthistruckthatthenightofheavytoilderiveditsname:andforthelastweekthestudentswhohadgotbehindhandwiththeirwork,throughtakinguppettypaidjobs

outside,hadbeenrepeatingthecry,‘Oh!I’minthetruckandnomistake.’Themomentthevehicleappeared,aclamourarose.Itwasaquartertonineo’clock,therewasbarelytimetoreachtheSchoolofArts.However,ahelter–skelterrushemptiedthestudio;eachbroughtouthischases,amidstageneraljostling;thosewhoobstinatelywishedtogivetheirdesignsalastfinishingtouchwereknockedaboutandcarriedawaywiththeircomrades.Inlessthanfiveminuteseveryframewaspileduponthetruck,andthetwobeardedfellows,themostrecentadditionstothestudio,harnessedthemselvestoitlikecattleanddrewitalongwithalltheirstrength,theothersvociferating,andpushingfrombehind.Itwasliketherushofasluice;thethreecourtyardswerecrossedamidstatorrentialcrash,andthestreetwasinvaded,floodedbythehowlingthrong.

Claude,nevertheless,hadsetuprunningbythesideofDubuche,whocameatthefag–end,veryvexedatnothavinghadanotherquarterofanhourtofinishatinteddrawingmorecarefully.

‘Whatareyougoingtodoafterwards?’askedClaude.

‘Oh!I’veerrandswhichwilltakeupmywholeday.’

Thepainterwasgrievedtoseethateventhisfriendescapedhim.‘Allright,then,’saidhe;‘inthatcaseIleaveyou.ShallweseeyouatSandoz’sto–night?’

‘Yes,Ithinkso;unlessI’mkepttodinnerelsewhere.’

Bothweregettingoutofbreath.Thebandofembryoarchitects,withoutslackeningtheirpace,hadpurposelytakenthelongestwayroundforthepleasureofprolongingtheiruproar.AfterrushingdowntheRueduFour,theydashedacrossthePlaceGozlinandsweptintotheRuedel’Echaude.Headingtheprocessionwasthetruck,drawnandpushedalongmoreandmorevigorously,andconstantlyreboundingovertheroughpaving–stones,amidthejoltingoftheframeswithwhichitwasladen.Itsescortgallopedalongmadly,compellingthepassers–bytodrawbackclosetothehousesinordertosavethemselvesfrombeingknockeddown;whiletheshop–keepers,standingopen–mouthedontheirdoorsteps,believedinarevolution.Thewholeneighbourhoodseemedtopsy–turvy.IntheRueJacob,suchwastherush,sofrightfulweretheyells,thatseveralhouseshutterswerehastilyclosed.AstheRueBonapartewas,atlast,beingreached,onetall,fairfellowthoughtitagoodjoketocatchholdofalittleservantgirlwhostoodbewilderedonthepavement,anddragheralongwiththem,likeawispofstrawcaughtinatorrent.

‘Well,’saidClaude,‘good–bye,then;I’llseeyouto–night.’

‘Yes,to–night.’

Thepainter,outofbreath,hadstoppedatthecorneroftheRuedesBeauxArts.ThecourtgatesoftheArtSchoolstoodwideopeninfrontofhim,andtheprocessionplungedintotheyard.

Afterdrawingbreath,ClauderetracedhisstepstotheRuedeSeine.Hisbadluckwasincreasing;itseemedordainedthatheshouldnotbeabletobeguileachumfromworkthatmorning.Sohewentupthestreet,andslowlywalkedonasfarasthePlaceduPantheon,withoutanydefiniteaim.ThenitoccurredtohimthathemightjustlookintotheMunicipalOffices,ifonlytoshakehandswithSandoz.Thatwould,atanyrate,meantenminuteswellspent.ButhepositivelygaspedwhenhewastoldbyanattendantthatM.

Sandozhadaskedforadayofftoattendafuneral.However,heknewthetrickofold.Hisfriendalwaysfoundthesamepretextwheneverhewantedtodoagoodday’sworkathome.Hehadalreadymadeuphismindtojoinhimthere,whenafeelingofartisticbrotherliness,thescrupleofanhonestworker,madehimpause;yes,itwouldbeacrimetogoanddisturbthatgoodfellow,andinfecthimwiththediscouragementbornofadifficulttask,attheverymomentwhenhewas,nodoubt,manfullyaccomplishinghisownwork.

SoClaudehadtoresignhimselftohisfate.Hedraggedhisblackmelancholyalongthequaysuntilmid–day,hisheadsoheavy,sofullofthoughtsofhislackofpower,thatheonlyespiedthewell–lovedhorizonsoftheSeinethroughamist.ThenhefoundhimselfoncemoreintheRuedelaFemme–sans–Tete,wherehebreakfastedatGomard’swineshop,whosesign‘TheDogofMontargis,’inspiredhimwithinterest.Somestonemasons,intheirworkingblouses,bespatteredwithmortar,werethereattable,and,likethem,andwiththem,heatehiseightsous’‘ordinary’—somebeefbrothinabowl,inwhichhesoakedsomebread,followedbyasliceofboiledsoup–beef,garnishedwithharicotbeans,andserveduponaplatedampwithdish–water.However,itwasstilltoogood,hethought,forabruteunabletoearnhisbread.Wheneverhisworkmiscarried,heundervaluedhimself,rankedhimselflowerthanacommonlabourer,whosesinewyarmscouldatleastperformtheirappointedtask.Foranhourhelingeredinthetavernbrutifyinghimselfbylisteningtotheconversationatthetablesaroundhim.Onceoutsideheslowlyresumedhiswalkinhaphazardfashion.

WhenhegottothePlacedel’HoteldeVille,however,afreshideamadehimquickenhispace.WhyhadhenotthoughtofFagerolles?Fagerolleswasanicefellow,gay,andbynomeansafool,althoughhestudiedattheSchoolofArts.Onecouldtalkwithhim,evenwhenhedefendedbadpainting.Ifhehadlunchedathisfather’s,intheRueVieille–du–Temple,hemustcertainlystillbethere.

Onenteringthenarrowstreet,Claudefeltasensationofrefreshingcoolnesscomeoverhim.Inthesunithadgrownverywarm,andmoisturerosefromthepavement,which,howeverbrightthesky,remaineddampandgreasybeneaththeconstanttrampingofthepedestrians.Everyminute,whenapushobligedClaudetoleavethefootwalk,hefoundhimselfindangerofbeingknockeddownbytrucksorvans.Stillthestreetamusedhim,withitsstragglinghousesoutofline,theirflatfrontageschequeredwithsignboardsuptotheveryeaves,andpiercedwithsmallwindows,whencecamethehumofeverykindofhandiworkthatcanbecarriedonathome.Inoneofthenarrowestpartsofthestreetasmallnewspapershopmadehimstop.Itwasbetwixtahairdresser’sandatripeseller’s,andhadanoutdoordisplayofidioticprints,romanticbalderdashmixedwithfilthycaricaturesfitforabarrack–room.Infrontofthese‘pictures,’alankhobbledehoystoodlostinreverie,whiletwoyounggirlsnudgedeachotherandjeered.Hefeltinclinedtoslaptheirfaces,buthehurriedacrosstheroad,forFagerolles’househappenedtobeopposite.Itwasadarkoldtenement,standingforwardfromtheothers,andwasbespatteredlikethemwiththemudfromthegutters.Asanomnibuscameup,Claudebarelyhadtimetojumpuponthefootpavement,therereducedtotheproportionsofasimpleledge;thewheelsbrushedagainsthischest,andhewasdrenchedtohisknees.

M.Fagerolles,senior,amanufacturerofartisticzinc–work,hadhisworkshopsonthegroundfloorofthebuilding,andhavingconvertedtwolargefrontroomsonthefirstfloor

intoawarehouse,hepersonallyoccupiedasmall,dark,cellar–likeapartmentoverlookingthecourtyard.ItwastherethathissonHenrihadgrownup,likeatruespecimenofthefloraoftheParisstreets,attheedgeofthatnarrowpavementconstantlystruckbytheomnibuswheels,alwayssoddenedbythegutterwater,andoppositetheprintandnewspapershop,flankedbythebarber’sandtripeseller’s.Atfirsthisfatherhadmadeanornamentaldraughtsmanofhimforpersonaluse.Butwhentheladhaddevelopedhigherambition,takingtopaintingproper,andtalkingabouttheSchoolofArts,therehadbeenquarrels,blows,aseriesofseparationsandreconciliations.Evennow,althoughHenrihadalreadyachievedsomesuccesses,themanufacturerofartisticzinc–work,whilelettinghimhavehiswill,treatedhimharshly,likealadwhowasspoilinghiscareer.

Aftershakingoffthewater,Claudewentupthedeeparchwayentrance,toacourtyard,wherethelightwasquitegreenish,andwheretherewasadank,mustysmell,likethatatthebottomofatank.Therewasanoverhangingroofingofglassandironatthefootofthestaircase,whichwasawideone,withawrought–ironrailing,eatenwithrust.Asthepainterpassedthewarehouseonthefirstfloor,heglancedthroughaglassdoorandnoticedM.Fagerollesexaminingsomepatterns.Wishingtobepolite,heentered,inspiteoftheartisticdisgusthefeltforallthatzinc,colouredtoimitatebronze,andhavingalltherepulsivemendaciousprettinessofspuriousart.

‘Goodmorning,monsieur.IsHenristillathome?’

Themanufacturer,astout,sallow–lookingman,drewhimselfstraightamidstallhisnosegayvasesandcruetsandstatuettes.Hehadinhishandanewmodelofathermometer,formedofajugglinggirlwhocrouchedandbalancedtheglasstubeonhernose.

‘Henrididnotcomeintolunch,’heanswereddrily.

ThiscoolreceptionupsetClaude.‘Ah!hedidnotcomeback;Ibegpardonforhavingdisturbedyou,then.Good–day,monsieur.’

‘Good–day.’

Oncemoreoutside,Claudebegantosweartohimself.Hisill–luckwascomplete,Fagerollesescapedhimalso.Heevenfeltvexedwithhimselfforhavinggonethere,andhavingtakenaninterestinthatpicturesqueoldstreet;hewasinfuriatedbytheromanticgangrenethateversproutedafreshwithinhim,dowhathemight.Itwashismalady,perhaps,thefalseprinciplewhichhesometimesfeltlikeabaracrosshisskull.Andwhenhehadreachedthequaysagain,hethoughtofgoinghometoseewhetherhispicturewasreallysoverybad.Butthemereideamadehimtrembleallover.Hisstudioseemedachamberofhorrors,wherehecouldnomorecontinuetolive,asif,indeed,hehadleftthecorpseofsomebelovedbeingthere.No,no;toclimbthethreeflightsofstairs,toopenthedoor,toshuthimselfupfacetofacewith‘that,’wouldhaveneededstrengthbeyondhiscourage.SohecrossedtheSeineandwentalongtheRueSt.Jacques.Hefelttoowretchedandlonely;and,comewhatmight,hewouldgototheRued’EnfertoturnSandozfromhiswork.

Sandoz’slittlefourth–floorflatconsistedofadining–room,abedroom,andastripofkitchen.Itwastenantedbyhimselfalone;hismother,disabledbyparalysis,occupiedontheothersideofthelandingasingleroom,whereshelivedinmoroseandvoluntary

solitude.Thestreetwasadesertedone;thewindowsoftheroomsoverlookedthegardensoftheDeafandDumbAsylum,abovewhichrosetheroundedcrestofaloftytree,andthesquaretowerofSt.Jacques–du–Haut–Pas.

ClaudefoundSandozinhisroom,bendingoverhistable,busywithapageof‘copy.’

‘Iamdisturbingyou?’saidClaude.

‘Notatall.Ihavebeenworkingeversincemorning,andI’vehadenoughofit.I’vebeenkillingmyselfforthelasthouroverasentencethatreadsanyhow,andwhichhasworriedmeallthroughmylunch.’

Thepaintermadeagestureofdespair,andtheother,seeinghimsogloomy,atonceunderstoodmatters.

‘Youdon’tgetoneither,eh?Well,let’sgoout.Asharpwalkwilltakealittleoftherustoffus.Shallwego?’

Ashewaspassingthekitchen,however,anoldwomanstoppedhim.Itwashischarwoman,who,asarule,cameonlyfortwohoursinthemorningandtwohoursintheevening.OnThursdays,however,sheremainedthewholeafternooninordertolookafterthedinner.

‘Thenit’sdecided,monsieur?’sheasked.‘It’stobeapieceofskateandalegofmutton,withpotatoes.’

‘Yes,ifyoulike.’

‘ForhowmanyamItolaythecloth?’

‘Oh!asforthat,oneneverknows.Layforfive,atanyrate;we’llseeafterwards.Dinneratseven,eh?we’lltrytobehomebythen.’

Whentheywereonthelanding,Sandoz,leavingClaudetowaitforhim,stoleintohismother’sroom.Whenhecameoutagain,inthesamediscreetaffectionatemanner,theybothwentdownstairsinsilence.Outside,havingsniffedtorightandleft,asiftoseewhichwaythewindblew,theyendedbygoingupthestreet,reachedthePlacedel’Observatoire,andturneddowntheBoulevardduMontparnasse.Thiswastheirordinarypromenade;theyreachedthespotinstinctively,beingfondofthewideexpanseoftheouterboulevards,wheretheycouldroamandloungeatease.Theycontinuedsilent,fortheirheadswereheavystill,butthecomfortofbeingtogethergraduallymadethemmoreserene.StillitwasonlywhentheywereoppositetheWesternRailwayStationthatSandozspoke.

‘Isay,supposewegotoMahoudeau’s,toseehowhe’sgettingonwithhisbigmachine.Iknowthathehasgiven“hisgodsandsaints”theslipto–day.’

‘Allright,’answeredClaude.‘Let’sgotoMahoudeau’s.’

TheyatonceturnedintotheRueduCherche–Midi.There,atafewstepsfromtheboulevard,Mahoudeau,asculptor,hadrentedtheshopofafruitererwhohadfailedinbusiness,andhehadinstalledhisstudiotherein,contentinghimselfwithcoveringthewindowswithalayerofwhitening.Atthispoint,thestreet,wideanddeserted,hasaquiet,provincialaspect,withasomewhatecclesiasticaltouch.Largegatewaysstandwideopen

showingasuccessionofdeeproomyyards;fromacowkeeper’sestablishmentcomesatepid,pungentsmelloflitter;andthedeadwallofaconventstretchesawayforagoodlylength.Itwasbetweenthisconventandaherbalist’sthattheshoptransformedintoastudiowassituated.Itstillboreonitssign–boardtheinscription,‘FruitandVegetables,’inlargeyellowletters.

ClaudeandSandoznarrowlymissedbeingblindedbysomelittlegirlswhowereskippinginthestreet.Onthefootpavementsatseveralfamilieswhosebarricadesofchairscompelledthefriendstostepdownontotheroadway.However,theyweredrawingnigh,whenthesightoftheherbalist’sshopdelayedthemforamoment.Betweenitswindows,deckedwithenemas,bandages,andsimilarthings,beneaththedriedherbshangingabovethedoorway,whencecameaconstantaromaticsmell,athin,darkwomanstoodtakingstockofthem,while,behindher,inthegloomoftheshop,onesawthevaguesilhouetteofalittlesickly–lookingman,whowascoughingandexpectorating.Thefriendsnudgedeachother,theireyeslightedupwithbanteringmirth;andthentheyturnedthehandleofMahoudeau’sdoor.

Theshop,thoughtolerablyroomy,wasalmostfilledbyamassofclay:acolossalBacchante,fallingbackuponarock.Thewoodenstaysbentbeneaththeweightofthatalmostshapelesspile,ofwhichnothingbutsomehugelimbscouldasyetbedistinguished.Somewaterhadbeenspiltonthefloor,severalmuddybucketsstraggledhereandthere,whileaheapofmoistenedplasterwaslyinginacorner.Ontheshelves,formerlyoccupiedbyfruitandvegetables,werescatteredsomecastsfromtheantique,coveredwithatraceryofcinder–likedustwhichhadgraduallycollectedthere.Awash–housekindofdampness,astalesmellofmoistclay,rosefromthefloor.Andthewretchednessofthissculptor’sstudioandthedirtattendantupontheprofessionweremadestillmoreconspicuousbythewanlightthatfilteredthroughtheshopwindowsbesmearedwithwhitening.

‘What!isityou?’shoutedMahoudeau,whosatbeforehisfemalefigure,smokingapipe.

Hewassmallandthin,withabonyface,alreadywrinkledattwenty–seven.Hisblackmane–likehairlayentangledoverhisverylowforehead,andhissallowmask,uglyalmosttoferociousness,waslightedupbyapairofchildisheyes,brightandempty,whichsmiledwithwinningsimplicity.ThesonofastonemasonofPlassans,hehadachievedgreatsuccessatthelocalartcompetitions,andhadafterwardscometoParisasthetownlaureate,withanallowanceofeighthundredfrancsperannum,foraperiodoffouryears.Inthecapital,however,hehadfoundhimselfatsea,defenceless,failinginhiscompetitionsattheSchoolofArts,andspendinghisallowancetonopurpose;sothat,attheendofhisterm,hehadbeenobligedforalivelihoodtoentertheemploymentofadealerinchurchstatues,atwhoseestablishment,fortenhoursaday,hescrapedawayatSt.Josephs,St.Rochs,MaryMagdalens,and,infact,allthesaintsofthecalendar.Forthelastsixmonths,however,hehadexperiencedarevivalofambition,onfindinghimselfoncemoreamonghiscomradesofProvence,theeldestofwhomhewas—fellowswhomhehadknownatGeraud’sboarding–schoolforlittleboys,andwhohadsincegrownintosavagerevolutionaries.Atpresent,throughhisconstantintercoursewithimpassionedartists,whotroubledhisbrainwithallsortsofwildtheories,hisambitionaimedatthegigantic.

‘Thedevil!’saidClaude,‘there’salump.’

Thesculptor,delighted,gavealongpullathispipe,andblewacloudofsmoke.

‘Eh,isn’tit?Iamgoingtogivethemsomeflesh,andlivingflesh,too;notthebladdersoflardthattheyturnout.’

‘It’sawomanbathing,isn’tit?’askedSandoz.

‘No;Ishallputsomevineleavesaroundherhead.ABacchante,youunderstand.’

AtthisClaudeflewintoaviolentpassion.

‘ABacchante?Doyouwanttomakefoolsofpeople?DoessuchathingasaBacchanteexist?Avintaginggirl,eh?Andquitemodern,dashitall.Iknowshe’snude,soletherbeapeasantwomanwhohasundressed.Andthatmustbeproperlyconveyed,mind;peoplemustrealisethatshelives.’

Mahoudeau,takenaback,listened,trembling.HewasafraidofClaude,andbowedtohisidealofstrengthandtruth.Soheevenimproveduponthepainter’sidea.

‘Yes,yes,that’swhatImeanttosay—avintaginggirl.Andyou’llseewhetherthereisn’tarealtouchofwomanabouther.’

AtthatmomentSandoz,whohadbeenmakingthetourofthehugeblockofclay,exclaimed:‘Why,here’sthatsneakofaChaine.’

Behindthepile,indeed,satChaine,aburlyfellowwhowasquietlypaintingaway,copyingthefirelessrustystoveonasmallcanvas.Itcouldbetoldthathewasapeasantbyhisheavy,deliberatemannerandhisbull–neck,tannedandhardenedlikeleather.Hisonlynoticeablefeaturewashisforehead,displayingallthebumpsofobstinacy;forhisnosewassosmallastobelostbetweenhisredcheeks,whileastiffbeardhidhispowerfuljaws.HecamefromSaintFirmin,avillageaboutsixmilesfromPlassans,wherehehadbeenacow–boy,untilhedrewfortheconscription;andhismisfortunesdatedfromtheenthusiasmthatagentlemanoftheneighbourhoodhadshownforthewalking–stickhandleswhichhecarvedoutofrootswithhisknife.Fromthatmoment,havingbecomearusticgenius,anembryogreatmanforthislocalconnoisseur,whohappenedtobeamemberofthemuseumcommittee,hehadbeenhelpedbyhim,adulatedanddrivencrazywithhopes;buthehadsuccessivelyfailedineverything—hisstudiesandcompetitions—thusmissingthetown’spurse.Nevertheless,hehadstartedforParis,afterworryinghisfather,awretchedpeasant,intoprematurepaymentofhisheritage,athousandfrancs,onwhichhereckonedtoliveforatwelvemonthwhileawaitingthepromisedvictory.Thethousandfrancshadlastedeighteenmonths.Then,ashehadonlytwentyfrancsleft,hehadtakenuphisquarterswithhisfriend,Mahoudeau.Theybothsleptinthesamebed,inthedarkbackshop;theybothinturncutslicesfromthesameloavesofbread—ofwhichtheyboughtsufficientforafortnightatatime,sothatitmightgetveryhard,andthattheymightthusbeabletoeatbutlittleofit.

‘Isay,Chaine,’continuedSandoz,‘yourstoveisreallyveryexact.’

Chaine,withoutanswering,gaveachuckleoftriumphwhichlighteduphisfacelikeasunbeam.Byacrowningstrokeofimbecility,andtomakehismisfortunesperfect,hisprotector’sadvicehadthrownhimintopainting,inspiteoftherealtastethatheshowed

forwoodcarving.Andhepaintedlikeawhitewasher,mixinghiscoloursasahodmanmixeshismortar,andmanagingtomaketheclearestandbrightestofthemquitemuddy.Histriumphconsisted,however,incombiningexactnesswithawkwardness;hedisplayedallthenaiveminutenessoftheprimitivepainters;infact,hismind,barelyraisedfromtheclods,delightedinpettydetails.Thestove,withitsperspectiveallawry,wastameandprecise,andincolourasdingyasmire.

Claudeapproachedandfeltfullofcompassionatthesightofthatpainting,andthoughhewasasarulesoharshtowardsbadpainters,hiscompassionpromptedhimtosayawordofpraise.

‘Ah!onecan’tsaythatyouareatrickster;youpaint,atanyrate,asyoufeel.Verygood,indeed.’

However,thedooroftheshophadopened,andagood–looking,fairfellow,withabigpinknose,andlarge,blue,short–sightedeyes,enteredshouting:

‘Isay,whydoesthatherbalistwomannextdooralwaysstandonherdoorstep?Whatanuglymugshe’sgot!’

Theyalllaughed,exceptMahoudeau,whoseemedverymuchembarrassed.

‘Jory,theKingofBlunderers,’declaredSandoz,shakinghandswiththenewcomer.

‘Why?What?IsMahoudeauinterestedinher?Ididn’tknow,’resumedJory,whenhehadatlengthgraspedthesituation.‘Well,well,whatdoesitmatter?Wheneverything’ssaid,theyareallirresistible.’

‘Asforyou,’thesculptorrejoined,‘Icanseeyouhavetumbledonyourlady–love’sfinger–nailsagain.Shehasdugabitoutofyourcheek!’

Theyallburstoutlaughinganew,whileJory,inhisturn,reddened.Infact,hisfacewasscratched:therewereeventwodeepgashesacrossit.ThesonofamagistrateofPlassans,whomhehaddrivenhalf–crazybyhisdissoluteconduct,hehadcrownedeverythingbyrunningawaywithamusic–hallsingerunderthepretextofgoingtoParistofollowtheliteraryprofession.DuringthesixmonthsthattheyhadbeencampingtogetherinashadyhoteloftheQuartierLatin,thegirlhadalmostflayedhimaliveeachtimeshecaughthimpayingattentiontoanybodyelseofhersex.And,asthisoftenhappened,healwayshadsomefreshscartoshow—abloodynose,atornear,oradamagedeye,swollenandblackened.

Atlasttheyallbegantotalk,withtheexceptionofChaine,whowentonpaintingwiththedeterminedexpressionofanoxattheplough.Joryhadatoncegoneintoecstasiesovertheroughlyindicatedfigureofthevintaginggirl.Heworshippedamassivestyleofbeauty.HisfirstwritingsinhisnativetownhadbeensomeParnassiansonnetscelebratingthecopiouscharmsofahandsomepork–butcheress.InParis—wherehehadfalleninwiththewholebandofPlassans—hehadtakentoartcriticism,and,foralivelihood,hewrotearticlesfortwentyfrancsapieceinasmall,slashingpapercalled‘TheDrummer.’Indeed,oneofthesearticles,astudyonapicturebyClaudeexhibitedatPapaMalgras’s,hadjustcausedatremendousscandal;forJoryhadthereinrundownallthepainterswhomthepublicappreciatedtoextolhisfriend,whomhesetupastheleaderofanewschool,theschoolofthe‘openair.’Verypracticalatheart,hedidnotcareinrealityarapabout

anythingthatdidnotconducetohisownpleasures;hesimplyrepeatedthetheoriesheheardenunciatedbyhisfriends.‘Isay,Mahoudeau,’henowexclaimed,‘youshallhaveanarticle;I’lllaunchthatwomanofyours.Whatlimbs,myboys!She’smagnificent!’

Thensuddenlychangingtheconversation:‘Bytheway,’hesaid,‘mymiserlyfatherhasapologised.HeisafraidIshalldraghisnamethroughthemud,sohesendsmeahundredfrancsamonthnow.Iampayingmydebts.’

‘Debts!youaretoocarefultohaveany,’mutteredSandoz,withasmile.

Infact,Jorydisplayedahereditarytightnessoffistwhichmuchamusedhisfriends.Hemanagedtoleadaprofligatelifewithoutmoneyandwithoutincurringdebts;andwiththeskillhethusdisplayedwasalliedconstantduplicity,ahabitofincessantlylying,whichhehadcontractedinthedevoutsphereofhisfamily,wherehisanxietytohidehisviceshadmadehimlieabouteverythingatallhours,andevenwithoutoccasion.Buthenowgaveasuperbreply,thecryofasageofdeepexperience.

‘Oh,youfellows,youdon’tknowtheworthofmoney!’

Thistimehewashooted.Whataphilistine!Andtheinvectivescontinued,whensomelighttapsononeofthewindow–panessuddenlymadethedincease.

‘Sheisreallybecominganuisance,’saidMahoudeau,withagestureofannoyance.

‘Eh?Whoisit?Theherbalistwoman?’askedJory.‘Lethercomein;itwillbegreatfun.’

Thedoorindeedhadalreadybeenopened,andMahoudeau’sneighbour,MadameJabouille,orMathilde,asshewasfamiliarlycalled,appearedonthethreshold.Shewasaboutthirty,withaflatfacehorriblyemaciated,andpassionateeyes,thelidsofwhichhadabluishtingeasiftheywerebruised.ItwassaidthatsomemembersoftheclergyhadbroughtabouthermarriagewithlittleJabouille,atatimewhenthelatter’sbusinesswasstillflourishing,thankstothecustomofallthepiousfolkoftheneighbourhood.Thetruthwas,thatonesometimesespiedblackcassocksstealthilycrossingthatmysteriousshop,whereallthearomaticherbssetaperfumeofincense.Akindofcloistralquietudepervadedtheplace;thedevoteeswhocameinspokeinlowvoices,asifinaconfessional,slippedtheirpurchasesintotheirbagsfurtively,andwentoffwithdowncasteyes.Unfortunately,someveryhorridrumourshadgotabroad—slanderinventedbythewine–shopkeeperopposite,saidpiousfolks.Atanyrate,sincethewidowerhadre–married,thebusinesshadbeengoingtothedogs.Theglassjarsseemedtohavelostalltheirbrightness,andthedriedherbs,suspendedfromtheceiling,weretumblingtodust.Jabouillehimselfwascoughinghislifeout,reducedtoaveryskeleton.AndalthoughMathildeprofessedtobereligious,thepiouscustomersgraduallydesertedher,beingofopinionthatshemadeherselftooconspicuouswithyoungfellowsoftheneighbourhoodnowthatJabouillewasalmosteatenoutofhouseandhome.

ForamomentMathilderemainedmotionless,blinkinghereyes.Apungentsmellhadspreadthroughtheshop,asmellofsimples,whichshebroughtwithherinherclothesandgreasy,tumbledhair;thesicklysweetnessofmallow,thesharpodourofelderseed,thebittereffluviaofrhubarb,but,aboveall,thehotwhiffofpeppermint,whichseemedlikeherverybreath.

Shemadeagestureoffeignedsurprise.‘Oh,dearme!youhavecompany—Ididnot

know;I’lldropinagain.’

‘Yes,do,’saidMahoudeau,lookingveryvexed.‘Besides,Iamgoingout;youcangivemeasittingonSunday.’

AtthisClaude,stupefied,fairlystaredattheemaciatedMathilde,andthenatthehugevintagingwoman.

‘What?’hecried,‘isitmadamewhoposesforthatfigure?Thedickens,youexaggerate!’

Thenthelaughterbeganagain,whilethesculptorstammeredhisexplanations.‘Oh!sheonlyposesfortheheadandthehands,andmerelyjusttogivemeafewindications.’

Mathilde,however,laughedwiththeothers,withasharp,brazen–facedlaughter,showingthewhilethegapingholesinhermouth,whereseveralteethwerewanting.

‘Yes,’resumedMahoudeau.‘Ihavetogooutonsomebusinessnow.Isn’titso,youfellows,weareexpectedoveryonder?’

Hehadwinkedathisfriends,feelingeagerforagoodlounge.Theyallansweredthattheywereexpected,andhelpedhimtocoverthefigureofthevintaginggirlwithsomestripsofoldlinenwhichweresoakinginapailofwater.

However,Mathilde,lookingsubmissivebutsad,didnotstir.Shemerelyshiftedfromoneplacetoanother,whentheypushedagainsther,whileChaine,whowasnolongerpainting,glancedatheroverhispicture.Sofar,hehadnotopenedhislips.ButasMahoudeauatlastwentoffwithhisthreefriends,hemadeuphismindtoask,inhishuskyvoice:

‘Shallyoucomehometo–night?’

‘Verylate.Haveyourdinnerandgotobed.Good–bye.’

ThenChaineremainedalonewithMathildeinthedampshop,amidsttheheapsofclayandthepuddlesofwater,whilethechalkylightfromthewhitenedwindowsglaredcrudelyoverallthewretcheduntidiness.

Meantimethefourothers,ClaudeandMahoudeau,JoryandSandoz,strolledalong,seemingtotakeupthewholewidthoftheBoulevarddesInvalides.Itwastheusualthing,thebandwasgraduallyincreasedbytheaccessionofcomradespickedupontheway,andthencamethewildmarchofahordeuponthewar–path.Withtheboldassuranceoftheirtwentysummers,theseyoungfellowstookpossessionofthefootpavement.Themomenttheyweretogethertrumpetsseemedtosoundinadvanceofthem;theyseizeduponParisandquietlydroppeditintotheirpockets.Therewasnolongertheslightestdoubtabouttheirvictory;theyfreelydisplayedtheirthreadbarecoatsandoldshoes,likedestinedconquerorsofto–morrowwhodisdainedbagatelles,andhadonlytotakethetroubletobecomethemastersofalltheluxurysurroundingthem.Andallthiswasattendedbyhugecontemptforeverythingthatwasnotart—contemptforfortune,contemptfortheworldatlarge,and,aboveall,contemptforpolitics.Whatwasthegoodofallsuchrubbish?Onlyalotofincapablesmeddledwithit.Awarpedviewofthings,magnificentinitsveryinjustice,exaltedthem;anintentionalignoranceofthenecessitiesofsociallife,thecrazydreamofhavingnonebutartistsuponearth.Theyseemedverystupidattimes,but,allthesame,theirpassionmadethemstrongandbrave.

Claudebecameexcited.Faithinhimselfrevivedamidsttheglowofcommonhopes.Hisworryofthemorninghadonlyleftavaguenumbnessbehind,andhenowoncemorebegantodiscusshispicturewithSandozandMahoudeau,swearing,itistrue,thathewoulddestroyitthenextday.Jory,whowasveryshort–sighted,staredatalltheelderlyladieshemet,andairedhistheoriesonartisticwork.Amanoughttogivehisfullmeasureatonceinthefirstspurtofinspiration;asforhimself,henevercorrectedanything.And,stilldiscussing,thefourfriendswentondowntheboulevard,which,withitscomparativesolitude,anditsendlessrowsoffinetrees,seemedtohavebeenexpresslydesignedasanarenafortheirdisputations.WhentheyreachedtheEsplanade,thewranglingbecamesoviolentthattheystoppedinthemiddleofthatlargeopenspace.Besidehimself,ClaudecalledJoryanumskull;wasitnotbettertodestroyone’sworkthantolaunchamediocreperformanceupontheworld?Trucklingtotradewasreallydisgusting.MahoudeauandSandoz,ontheirside,shoutedbothtogetheratthesametime.Somepassers–by,feelinguneasy,turnedroundtolook,andatlastgatheredroundthesefuriousyoungfellows,whoseemedbentonswallowingeachother.Buttheywentoffvexed,thinkingthatsomepracticaljokehadbeenplayeduponthem,whentheysuddenlysawthequartette,allgoodfriendsagain,gointorapturesoverawet–nurse,dressedinlightcolours,withlongcherry–tintedribbonsstreamingfromhercap.There,now!Thatwassomethinglike—whatatint,whatabrightnoteitsetamidthesurroundings!Delighted,blinkingtheireyes,theyfollowedthenurseunderthetrees,andthensuddenlyseemedrousedandastonishedtofindtheyhadalreadycomesofar.TheEsplanade,openonallsides,saveonthesouth,whererosethedistantpileoftheHoteldesInvalides,delightedthem—itwassovast,soquiet;theytherehadplentyofroomfortheirgestures;andtheyrecoveredbreaththere,althoughtheywerealwaysdeclaringthatPariswasfartoosmallforthem,andlackedsufficientairtoinflatetheirambitiouslungs.

‘Areyougoinganywhereparticular?’askedSandozofMahoudeauandJory.

‘No,’answeredthelatter,‘wearegoingwithyou.Whereareyougoing?’

Claude,gazingcarelesslyabouthim,muttered:‘Idon’tknow.Thatway,ifyoulike.’

TheyturnedontotheQuaid’Orsay,andwentasfarasthePontdelaConcorde.InfrontoftheCorpsLegislatifthepainterremarked,withanairofdisgust:‘Whatahideouspile!’

‘JulesFavremadeafinespeechtheotherday.HowhedidrileRouher,’saidJory.

However,theotherslefthimnotimetoproceed,thedisputesbeganafresh.‘WhowasJulesFavre?WhowasRouher?Didtheyexist?Aparcelofidiotswhomnoonewouldremembertenyearsaftertheirdeath.’Theyoungmenhadnowbeguntocrossthebridge,andtheyshruggedtheirshoulderswithcompassion.Then,onreachingthePlacedelaConcorde,theystoppedshortandrelapsedintosilence.

‘Well,’opinedClaudeatlast,‘thisisn’tbad,byanymeans.’

Itwasfouro’clock,andthedaywaswaningamidstagloriouspowderyshimmer.Totherightandleft,towardstheMadeleineandtowardstheCorpsLegislatif,linesofbuildingsstretchedaway,showingagainstthesky,whileintheTuileriesGardensrosegradientsofloftyroundedchestnuttrees.Andbetweentheverdantbordersofthepleasurewalks,theavenueoftheChampsElyseesslopedupwardasfarastheeyecouldreach,toppedbythecolossalArcdeTriomphe,agapeinfrontoftheinfinite.Adoublecurrent,atwofold

streamrolledalong—horsesshowinglikelivingeddies,vehicleslikeretreatingwaves,whichthereflectionsofapanelorthesuddensparkleoftheglassofacarriagelampseemedtotipwithwhitefoam.Lowerdown,thesquare—withitsvastfootways,itsroadsasbroadaslakes—wasfilledwithaconstantebbandflow,crossedineverydirectionbywhirlingwheels,andpeopledwithblackspecksofmen,whilethetwofountainsplashedandstreamed,exhalingdeliciouscoolnessamidalltheardentlife.

Claude,quiveringwithexcitement,keptsaying:‘Ah!Paris!It’sours.Wehaveonlytotakeit.’

Theyallgrewexcited,theireyesopenedwidewithdesire.Wasitnotgloryherselfthatsweptfromthesummitofthatavenueoverthewholecapital?Pariswasthere,andtheylongedtomakehertheirs.

‘Well,we’lltakeheroneday,’saidSandoz,withhisobstinateair.

‘Tobesureweshall,’saidMahoudeauandJoryinthesimplestmanner.

Theyhadresumedwalking;theystillroamedabout,foundthemselvesbehindtheMadeleine,andwentuptheRueTronchet.Atlast,astheyreachedthePlaceduHavre,Sandozexclaimed,‘SowearegoingtoBaudequin’s,eh?’

Theotherslookedasiftheyhaddroppedfromthesky;infact,itdidseemasiftheyweregoingtoBaudequin’s.

‘Whatdayoftheweekisit?’askedClaude.‘Thursday,eh?ThenFagerollesandGagnierearesuretobethere.Let’sgotoBaudequin’s.’

AndthereupontheywentuptheRued’Amsterdam.TheyhadjustcrossedParis,oneoftheirfavouriterambles,buttheytookotherroutesattimes—fromoneendofthequaystotheother;orfromthePorteSt.JacquestotheMoulineaux,orelsetoPere–la–Chaise,followedbyaroundaboutreturnalongtheouterboulevards.Theyroamedthestreets,theopenspaces,thecrossways;theyrambledonforwholedays,aslongastheirlegswouldcarrythem,asifintentonconqueringonedistrictafteranotherbyhurlingtheirrevolutionarytheoriesatthehouse–fronts;andthepavementseemedtobetheirproperty—allthepavementtouchedbytheirfeet,allthatoldbattlegroundwhencearoseintoxicatingfumeswhichmadethemforgettheirlassitude.

TheCafeBaudequinwassituatedontheBoulevarddesBatignolles,atthecorneroftheRueDarcet.Withouttheleastwhyorwherefore,ithadbeenselectedbythebandastheirmeeting–place,thoughGagnierealonelivedintheneighbourhood.TheymetthereregularlyonSundaynights;andonThursdayafternoons,ataboutfiveo’clock,thosewhowerethenatlibertyhadmadeitahabittolookinforamoment.Thatday,astheweatherwasfineandbright,thelittletablesoutsideundertheawningwereoccupiedbyrowsofcustomers,obstructingthefootway.Butthebandhatedallelbowingandpublicexhibition,sotheyjostledtheotherpeopleinordertogoinside,whereallwasdesertedandcool.

‘Hallo,there’sFagerollesbyhimself,’exclaimedClaude.

Hehadgonestraighttotheirusualtableattheendofthecafe,ontheleft,whereheshookhandswithapale,thin,youngman,whosepertgirlishfacewaslightedupbyapairofwinning,satiricalgreyeyes,whichattimesflashedlikesteel.Theyallsatdownand

orderedbeer,afterwhichthepainterresumed:

‘DoyouknowthatIwenttolookforyouatyourfather’s;andanicereceptionhegaveme.’

Fagerolles,whoaffectedalowdevil–may–carestyle,slappedhisthighs.‘Oh,theoldfellowplaguesme!Ihookeditthismorning,afterarow.Hewantsmetodrawsomethingsforhisbeastlyzincstuff.AsifIhadn’tenoughzincstuffattheArtSchool.’

Thisslapattheprofessorsdelightedtheyoungman’sfriends.Heamusedthemandmadehimselftheiridolbydintofalternateflatteryandblame.Hissmilewentfromonetotheother,while,bytheaidofafewdropsofbeerspiltonthetable,hislongnimblefingersbegantracingcomplicatedsketches.Hisartevidentlycameveryeasilytohim;itseemedasifhecoulddoanythingwithaturnofthehand.

‘AndGagniere?’askedMahoudeau;‘haven’tyouseenhim?’

‘No;Ihavebeenhereforthelasthour.’

JustthenJory,whohadremainedsilent,nudgedSandoz,anddirectedhisattentiontoagirlseatedwithagentlemanatatableatthebackoftheroom.Therewereonlytwoothercustomerspresent,twosergeants,whowereplayingcards.Thegirlwasalmostachild,oneofthoseyoungParisianhussieswhoareaslankaseverateighteen.Shesuggestedafrizzypoodle—withtheshoweroffairlittlelocksthatfelloverherdaintylittlenose,andherlargesmilingmouth,setbetweenrosycheeks.Shewasturningovertheleavesofanillustratedpaper,whilethegentlemanaccompanyinghergravelysippedaglassofMadeira;buteveryotherminuteshedartedgayglancesfromoverthenewspapertowardsthebandofartists.

‘Pretty,isn’tshe?’whisperedJory.‘Whoisshestaringat?Why,she’slookingatme.’

ButFagerollessuddenlybrokein:‘Isay,nononsense.Don’timaginethatIhavebeenhereforthelasthourmerelywaitingforyou.’

Theotherslaughed;andloweringhisvoicehetoldthemaboutthegirl,whowasnamedIrmaBecot.ShewasthedaughterofagrocerintheRueMontorgueil,andhadbeentoschoolintheneighbourhoodtillshewassixteen,writingherexercisesbetweentwobagsoflentils,andfinishingoffhereducationonherfather’sdoorstep,lollingaboutonthepavement,amidstthejostlingofthethrong,andlearningallaboutlifefromtheeverlastingtittle–tattleofthecooks,whoretailedallthescandaloftheneighbourhoodwhilewaitingforfivesous’worthofGruyerecheesetobeservedthem.Hermotherhavingdied,herfatherhimselfhadbeguntoleadratheragaylife,insuchwisethatthewholeofthegrocerystores—tea,coffee,driedvegetables,andjarsanddrawersofsweetstuff—weregraduallydevoured.Irmawasstillgoingtoschool,when,oneday,theplacewassoldup.Herfatherdiedofafitofapoplexy,andIrmasoughtrefugewithapooraunt,whogavehermorekicksthanhalfpence,withtheresultthatsheendedbyrunningaway,andtakingherflightthroughallthedancing–placesofMontmartreandBatignolles.

Claudelistenedtothestorywithhisusualairofcontemptforwomen.Suddenly,however,asthegentlemanroseandwentoutafterwhisperinginherear,IrmaBecot,afterwatchinghimdisappear,boundedfromherseatwiththeimpulsivenessofaschoolgirl,inordertojoinFagerolles,besidewhomshemadeherselfquiteathome,givinghimasmackingkiss,

anddrinkingoutofhisglass.Andshesmiledattheothersinaveryengagingmanner,forshewaspartialtoartists,andregrettedthattheyweregenerallysomiserablypoor.AsJorywassmoking,shetookhiscigaretteoutofhismouthandsetitinherown,butwithoutpausinginherchatter,whichsuggestedthatofasaucymagpie.

‘Youareallpainters,aren’tyou?Howamusing!Butwhydothosethreelookasiftheyweresulking.Justlaughabit,orIshallmakeyou,you’llsee!’

Asamatteroffact,Sandoz,Claude,andMahoudeau,quitetakenaback,werewatchinghermostgravely.Sheherselfremainedlistening,and,onhearinghercompanioncomeback,shehastilygaveFagerollesanappointmentforthemorrow.Then,afterreplacingthecigarettebetweenJory’slips,shestrodeoffwithherarmsraised,andmakingaverycomicalgrimace;insuchwisethatwhenthegentlemanreappeared,lookingsedateandsomewhatpale,hefoundherinherformerseat,stilllookingatthesameengravinginthenewspaper.Thewholescenehadbeenactedsoquickly,andwithsuchjauntydrollery,thatthetwosergeantswhosatnearby,good–naturedfellowsbothofthem,almostdiedoflaughterastheyshuffledtheircardsafresh.

Infact,Irmahadtakenthemallbystorm.SandozdeclaredthathernameofBecotwasverywellsuitedforanovel;Claudeaskedwhethershewouldconsenttoposeforasketch;whileMahoudeaualreadypicturedherasaParisgamin,astatuettethatwouldbesuretosell.Shesoonwentoff,however,andbehindthegentleman’sbackshewaftedkissestothewholeparty,ashowerofkisseswhichquiteupsettheimpressionableJory.

Itwasfiveo’clock,andthebandorderedsomemorebeer.Someoftheusualcustomershadtakenpossessionoftheadjacenttables,andthesephilistinescastsidelongglancesattheartists’corner,glancesinwhichcontemptwascuriouslymingledwithakindofuneasydeference.Theartistswereindeedwellknown;alegendwasbecomingcurrentrespectingthem.Theythemselveswerenowtalkingoncommon–placesubjects:abouttheheat,thedifficultyoffindingroomintheomnibustotheOdeon,andthediscoveryofawine–shopwhererealmeatwasobtainable.OneofthemwantedtostartadiscussionaboutanumberofidioticpicturesthathadlatelybeenhungintheLuxembourgMuseum;buttherewasonlyoneopiniononthesubject,thatthepictureswerenotworththeirframes.Thereupontheyleftoffconversing;theysmoked,merelyexchangingawordorasignificantsmilenowandthen.

‘Well,’askedClaudeatlast,‘arewegoingtowaitforGagniere?’

Atthistherewasaprotest.Gagnierewasabore.Besides,hewouldturnupassoonashesmeltthesoup.

‘Let’sbeoff,then,’saidSandoz.‘There’salegofmuttonthisevening,solet’strytobepunctual.’

Eachpaidhisscore,andtheyallwentout.Theirdeparturethrewthecafeintoastateofemotion.Someyoungfellows,painters,nodoubt,whisperedtogetherastheypointedatClaude,muchinthesamemannerasifheweretheredoubtablechieftainofahordeofsavages.Jory’sfamousarticlewasproducingitseffect;theverypublicwasbecominghisaccomplice,andofitselfwassoontofoundthatschooloftheopenair,whichthebandhadsofaronlyjokedabout.Astheygailysaid,theCafeBaudequinwasnotawareofthehonourtheyhaddoneitonthedaywhentheyselectedittobethecradleofarevolution.

Fagerolleshavingreinforcedthegroup,theynownumberedfive,andslowlytheytooktheirwayacrossParis,withtheirtranquillookofvictory.Themorenumeroustheywere,themoredidtheystretchacrossthepavement,andcarryawayontheirheelstheburninglifeofthestreets.WhentheyhadgonedowntheRuedeClichy,theywentstraightalongtheRuedelaChausseed’Antin,turnedtowardstheRuedeRichelieu,crossedtheSeinebythePontdesArts,soastoflingtheirgibesattheInstitute,andfinallyreachedtheLuxembourgbywayoftheRuedeSeine,whereaposter,printedinthreecolours,thegarishannouncementofatravellingcircus,madethemallshoutwithadmiration.Eveningwascomingon;thestreamofwayfarersflowedmoreslowly;thetiredcitywasawaitingtheshadowsofnight,readytoyieldtothefirstcomerwhomightbestrongenoughtotakeher.

OnreachingtheRued’Enfer,whenSandozhadusheredhisfourfriendsintohisownapartments,heoncemorevanishedintohismother’sroom.Heremainedthereforafewmoments,andthencameoutwithoutsayingaword,butwiththetender,gentlesmilehabitualtohimonsuchoccasions.Andimmediatelyafterwardsaterriblehubbub,oflaughter,argument,andmereshouting,aroseinhislittleflat.Sandozhimselfsettheexample,allthewhileassistingthecharwoman,whoburstintobitterlanguagebecauseitwashalf–pastseven,andherlegofmuttonwasdryingup.Thefivecompanions,seatedattable,werealreadyswallowingtheirsoup,averygoodonionsoup,whenanewcomersuddenlyappeared.

‘Hallo!here’sGagniere,’wasthevociferouschorus.

Gagniere,short,slight,andvaguelooking,withadoll–likestartledface,setoffbyafaircurlybeard,stoodforamomentonthethresholdblinkinghisgreeneyes.HebelongedtoMelun,wherehiswell–to–doparents,whowerebothdead,hadlefthimtwohouses;andhehadlearntpainting,unassisted,intheforestofFontainebleau.Hislandscapeswereatleastconscientiouslypainted,excellentinintention;buthisrealpassionwasmusic,amadnessformusic,acerebralbonfirewhichsethimonalevelwiththewildestoftheband.

‘AmIintheway?’hegentlyasked.

‘Notatall;comein!’shoutedSandoz.

Thecharwomanwasalreadylayinganextraknifeandfork.

‘SupposeshelaysaplaceforDubuche,whilesheisaboutit,’saidClaude.‘Hetoldmehewouldperhapscome.’

ButtheywerealldownuponDubuche,whofrequentedwomeninsociety.Jorysaidthathehadseenhiminacarriagewithanoldladyandherdaughter,whoseparasolshewasholdingonhisknees.

‘Wherehaveyoucomefromtobesolate?’askedFagerollesofGagniere.

Thelatter,whowasabouttoswallowhisfirstspoonfulofsoup,setitinhisplateagain.

‘IwasintheRuedeLancry—youknow,wheretheyhavechambermusic.Oh!myboy,someofSchumann’smachines!Youhaven’tanideaofthem!Theyclutchholdofyouatthebackofyourheadjustasifsomebodywerebreathingdownyourback.Yes,yes,it’s

somethingmuchmoreimmaterialthanakiss,justawhiffofbreath.‘Ponmyhonour,afellowfeelsasifheweregoingtodie.’

Hiseyesweremoisteningandheturnedpale,asifexperiencingsomeover–acuteenjoyment.

‘Eatyoursoup,’saidMahoudeau;‘you’lltellusallaboutitafterwards.’

Theskatewasserved,andtheyhadthevinegarbottleputonthetabletoimprovetheflavouroftheblackbutter,whichseemedratherinsipid.Theyatewithawill,andthehunksofbreadswiftlydisappeared.Therewasnothingrefinedabouttherepast,andthewinewasmerecommonstuff,whichtheywateredconsiderablyfromafeelingofdelicacy,inordertolessentheirhost’sexpenses.Theyhadjustsalutedthelegofmuttonwithahurrah,andthehosthadbeguntocarveit,whenthedooropenedanew.Butthistimetherewerefuriousprotests.

‘No,no,notanothersoul!Turnhimout,turnhimout.’

Dubuche,outofbreathwithhavingrun,bewilderedatfindinghimselfamidstsuchhowling,thrusthisfat,pallidfaceforward,whilststammeringexplanations.

‘Really,now,Iassureyouitwasthefaultoftheomnibuses.IhadtowaitforfiveofthemintheChampsElysees.’

‘No,no,he’slying!—Lethimgo,hesha’n’thaveanyofthatmutton.Turnhimout,turnhimout!’

Allthesame,heendedbycomingin,anditwasthennoticedthathewasstylishlyattired,allinblack,trousersandfrock–coatalike,andcravatedandbootedinthestiffceremoniousfashionofsomerespectablememberofthemiddleclassesgoingouttodinner.

‘Hallo!hehasmissedhisinvitation,’chaffedFagerolles.‘Don’tyouseethathisfineladiesdidn’taskhimtostaytodinner,andsonowhe’scometogobbleupourlegofmutton,ashedoesn’tknowwhereelsetogo?’

AtthisDubucheturnedred,andstammered:‘Oh!whatanidea!Howill–naturedyouare!And,besides,justattendtoyourownbusiness.’

SandozandClaude,seatednexttoeachother,smiled,andtheformer,beckoningtoDubuche,saidtohim:‘Layyourownplace,bringaplateandaglass,andsitbetweenus—likethat,they’llleaveyoualone.’

However,thechaffcontinuedallthetimethatthemuttonwasbeingeaten.WhenthecharwomanhadbroughtDubucheaplateofsoupandapieceofskate,hehimselffellinwiththejokesgood–naturedly.Hepretendedtobefamished,greedilymoppedouthisplate,andrelatedastoryaboutamotherhavingrefusedhimherdaughterbecausehewasanarchitect.Theendofthedinnerthusbecameveryboisterous;theyallrattledontogether.Theonlydessert,apieceofBriecheese,metwithenormoussuccess.Notascrapofitwasleft,andthebreadalmostranshort.Thewinedidrunshort,sotheyeachswallowedacleardraughtofwater,smackingtheirlipsthewhileamidstgreatlaughter.And,withfacesbeaming,andwell–filledpaunches,theypassedintothebedroomwiththesupremecontentoffolkswhohavefaredverysumptuouslyindeed.

ThosewereSandoz’sjollyevenings.Evenatthetimeswhenhewasharduphehadalwayshadsomeboiledbeefandbrothtosharewithhiscomrades.Hefeltdelightedathavinganumberofthemaroundhim,allfriends,inspiredbythesameideas.Thoughhewasoftheirownage,hebeamedwithfatherlyfeelingsandsatisfiedgood–naturewhenhesawtheminhisrooms,aroundhim,handinhand,andintoxicatedwithhope.Ashehadbuttworooms,thebedroomdiddutyasadrawing–room,andbecameasmuchtheirsashis.Forlackofsufficientchairs,twoorthreehadtoseatthemselvesonthebed.Andonthosewarmsummereveningsthewindowremainedwideopentoletintheair.Fromittwoblacksilhouettesweretobeseenrisingabovethehouses,againsttheclearsky—thetowerofSt.JacquesduHaut–PasandthetreeoftheDeafandDumbAsylum.Whenmoneywasplentifultherewasbeer.Everyonebroughthisowntobacco,theroomsoonbecamefullofsmoke,andwithoutseeingeachothertheyendedbyconversingfarintothenight,amidstthedeepmournfulsilenceofthatdeserteddistrict.

Onthatparticularevening,ataboutnineo’clock,thecharwomancamein.

‘Monsieur,Ihavedone.CanIgo?’

‘Yes,gotobed.Youhaveleftthekettleonthefire,haven’tyou?I’llmaketheteamyself.’

Sandozhadrisen.Hewentoffattheheelsofthecharwoman,andonlyreturnedaquarterofanhourafterwards.Hehadnodoubtbeentokisshismother,whomhetuckedupeverynightbeforeshedozedoff.

Meanwhilethevoiceshadrisentoahighpitchagain.Fagerolleswastellingastory.

‘Yes,oldfellow;attheSchooltheyevencorrectNatureherself.TheotherdayMazelcomesuptomeandsays:“Thosetwoarmsdon’tcorrespond”;whereuponIreply:“Lookforyourself,monsieur—themodel’sarelikethat.”ItwaslittleFloreBeauchamp,youknow.“Well,”Mazelfuriouslyreplies,“ifshehasthemlikethat,it’sverywrongofher.”’

Theyalmostallshrieked,especiallyClaude,towhomFagerollestoldthestorybywayofpayingcourt.Forsometimepreviouslytheyoungerartisthadyieldedtotheelder’sinfluence;andalthoughhecontinuedtopaintwithpurelytrickyskill,henolongertalkedofanythingbutsubstantial,thickly–paintedwork,ofbitsofnaturethrownontocanvas,palpitatingwithlife,suchastheyreallywere.Thisdidnotpreventhim,though,fromelsewherechaffingtheadeptsoftheopen–airschool,whomheaccusedofimpastingwithakitchenladle.

Dubuche,whohadnotlaughed,hissenseofrectitudebeingoffended,madesoboldastoreply:

‘WhydoyoustopattheSchoolifyouthinkyouarebeingbrutifiedthere?It’ssimpleenough,onegoesaway—Oh,Iknowyouareallagainstme,becauseIdefendtheSchool.But,yousee,myideaisthat,whenafellowwantstocarryonatrade,itisnotabadthingforhimtobeginbylearningit.’

Ferociousshoutsaroseatthis,andClaudehadneedofallhisauthoritytosecureahearing.

‘Heisright.Onemustlearnone’strade.Butitwon’tdotolearnitundertheferuleofprofessorswhowanttocramtheirownviewsforciblyintoyournut.ThatMazelisaperfectidiot!’

Heflunghimselfbackwardonthebed,onwhichhehadbeensitting,andwithhiseyesraisedtotheceiling,hewenton,inanexcitedtone:

‘Ah!life!life!tofeelitandportrayitinitsreality,toloveitforitself,tobeholdinittheonlyreal,lasting,andchangingbeauty,withoutanyidioticideaofennoblingitbymutilation.Tounderstandthatallso–calleduglinessisnothingbutthemarkofindividualcharacter,tocreaterealmenandendowthemwithlife—yes,that’stheonlywaytobecomeagod!’

Hisfaithwascomingbacktohim,themarchacrossParishadspurredhimononcemore;hewasagainseizedbyhispassionforlivingflesh.Theylistenedtohiminsilence.Hemadeawildgesture,thencalmeddown.

‘Nodoubteveryonehashisownideas;buttheannoyanceisthatattheInstitutetheyareevenmoreintolerantthanweare.ThehangingcommitteeoftheSalonisintheirhands.IamsurethatthatidiotMazelwillrefusemypicture.’

Thereupontheyallbrokeoutintoimprecations,forthisquestionofthehangingcommitteewastheeverlastingsubjectoftheirwrath.Theydemandedreforms;everyonehadasolutionoftheproblemready—fromuniversalsuffrage,appliedtotheelectionofahangingcommittee,liberalinthewidestsenseoftheword,downtounrestrictedliberty,aSalonopentoallexhibitors.[8]

Whiletheotherswentondiscussingthesubject,GagnieredrewMahoudeautotheopenwindow,where,inalowvoice,hiseyesthewhilestaringintospace,hemurmured:

‘Oh,it’snothingatall,onlyfourbars;asimpleimpressionjotteddownthereandthen.Butwhatadealthereisinit!Tomeit’sfirstofallalandscape,dwindlingawayinthedistance;abitofmelancholyroad,withtheshadowofatreethatonecannotsee;andthenawomanpassesalong,scarcelyasilhouette;onshegoesandyounevermeetheragain,no,nevermoreagain.’

Justatthatmoment,however,Fagerollesexclaimed,‘Isay,Gagniere,whatareyougoingtosendtotheSalonthisyear?’

Gagnieredidnothear,butcontinuedtalking,enraptured,asitwere.

‘InSchumannonefindseverything—theinfinite.AndWagner,too,whomtheyhissedagainlastSunday!’

ButafreshcallfromFagerollesmadehimstart.

‘Eh!what?WhatamIgoingtosendtotheSalon?Asmalllandscape,perhaps;alittlebitoftheSeine.Itissodifficulttodecide;firstofallImustfeelpleasedwithitmyself.’

Hehadsuddenlybecometimidandanxiousagain.Hisartisticscruples,hisconscientiousness,kepthimworkingformonthsonacanvasthesizeofone’shand.FollowingthetrackoftheFrenchlandscapepainters,thosemasterswhowerethefirsttoconquernature,heworriedaboutcorrectnessoftone,ponderingandponderingovertheprecisevalueoftints,tilltheoreticalscruplesendedbymakinghistouchheavy.Andheoftendidnotdaretochanceabrightdashofcolour,butpaintedinagreyishgloomykeywhichwasastonishing,whenonerememberedhisrevolutionarypassions.

‘Formypart,’saidMahoudeau,‘Ifeeldelightedattheprospectofmakingthemsquintwithmywoman.’

Claudeshruggedhisshoulders.‘Oh!you’llgetin,thesculptorshavebroadermindsthanthepainters.And,besides,youknowverywellwhatyouareabout;youhavesomethingatyourfingers’endsthatpleases.Therewillbeplentyofprettybitsaboutyourvintaginggirl.’

ThecomplimentmadeMahoudeaufeelserious.Heposedaboveallforvigourofexecution;hewasunconsciousofhisrealveinoftalent,anddespisedgracefulness,thoughiteverinvinciblysprungfromhisbig,coarsefingers—thefingersofanuntaughtworking–man—likeaflowerthatobstinatelysproutsfromthehardsoilwherethewindhasflungitsseed.

Fagerolles,whowasverycunning,haddecidedtosendnothing,forfearofdispleasinghismasters;andhechaffedtheSalon,callingit‘afoulbazaar,whereallthebadpaintingmadeeventhegoodturnmusty.’InhisinmosthearthewasdreamingofonedaysecuringtheRomeprize,thoughheridiculedit,ashedideverythingelse.

However,Jorystationedhimselfinthemiddleoftheroom,holdinguphisglassofbeer.Sippingeverynowandthen,hedeclared:‘Well,yourhangingcommitteequitedisgustsme!Isay,shallIdemolishit?I’llbeginbombardingitinourverynextnumber.You’llgivemesomenotes,eh?andwe’llknockittopieces.Thatwillbefinefun.’

Claudewasatlastfullywoundup,andgeneralenthusiasmprevailed.Yes,yes,theymuststartacampaign.Theywouldallbeinit,and,pressingshouldertoshoulder,marchtothebattletogether.Atthatmomenttherewasnotoneofthemwhoreservedhisshareoffame,fornothingdividedthemasyet;neithertheprofounddissemblanceoftheirvariousnatures,ofwhichtheythemselveswereignorant,northeirrivalries,whichwouldsomedaybringthemintocollision.Wasnotthesuccessofonethesuccessofalltheothers?Theiryouthwasfermenting,theywerebrimmingoverwithmutualdevotion;theyindulgedanewintheireverlastingdreamofgatheringintoaphalanxtoconquertheworld,eachcontributinghisindividualeffort;thisonehelpingthatoneforward,andthewholebandreachingfameatonceinonerow.Claude,astheacknowledgedchief,wasalreadysoundingthevictory,distributinglaurelswithsuchlyricalabundancethatheoverlookedhimself.Fagerolleshimself,gibingParisianthoughhemightbe,believedinthenecessityofforminganarmy;whileevenJory,althoughhehadacoarserappetite,withadealoftheprovincialstillabouthim,displayedmuchusefulcomradeship,catchingvariousartisticphrasesastheyfellfromhiscompanions’lips,andalreadypreparinginhismindthearticleswhichwouldheraldtheadventofthebandandmakethemknown.AndMahoudeaupurposelyexaggeratedhisintentionalroughness,andclaspedhishandslikeanogrekneadinghumanflesh;whileGagniere,inecstasy,asiffreedfromtheeverlastinggreyishnessofhisart,soughttorefinesensationtotheutmostlimitsofintelligence;andDubuche,withhismatter–of–factconvictions,threwinbutawordhereandthere;words,however,whichwerelikeclub–blowsintheverymidstofthefray.ThenSandoz,happyandsmilingatseeingthemsounited,‘allinoneshirt,’asheputit,openedanotherbottleofbeer.Hewouldhaveemptiedeveryoneinthehouse.

‘Eh?’hecried,‘we’reagreed,let’ssticktoit.It’sreallypleasanttocometoan

understandingamongfellowswhohavesomethingintheirnuts,somaythethunderboltsofheavensweepallidiotsaway!’

Atthatsamemomentaringatthebellstupefiedhim.Amidstthesuddensilenceoftheothers,heinquired—‘Who,tothedeuce,canthatbe—ateleveno’clock?’

Herantoopenthedoor,andtheyheardhimutteracryofdelight.Hewasalreadycomingbackagain,throwingthedoorwideopenashesaid—‘Ah!it’sverykindindeedtothinkofusandsurpriseuslikethis!Bongrand,gentlemen.’

Thegreatpainter,whomthemasterofthehouseannouncedinthisrespectfullyfamiliarway,entered,holdingoutbothhands.Theyalleagerlyrose,fullofemotion,delightedwiththatmanly,cordialhandshakesowillinglybestowed.Bongrandwasthenforty–fiveyearsold,stout,andwithaveryexpressivefaceandlonggreyhair.HehadrecentlybecomeamemberoftheInstitute,andworetherosetteofanofficeroftheLegionofHonourinthetopbutton–holeofhisunpretentiousalpacajacket.Hewasfondofyoungpeople;helikednothingsomuchastodropinfromtimetotimeandsmokeapipeamongthesebeginners,whoseenthusiasmwarmedhisheart.

‘Iamgoingtomakethetea,’exclaimedSandoz.

Whenhecamebackfromthekitchen,carryingtheteapotandcups,hefoundBongrandinstalledastrideachair,smokinghisshortcutty,amidstthedinwhichhadagainarisen.Bongrandhimselfwasholdingforthinastentorianvoice.ThegrandsonofafarmeroftheBeauceregion,thesonofamanrisentothemiddleclasses,withpeasantbloodinhisveins,indebtedforhisculturetoamotherofveryartistictastes,hewasrich,hadnoneedtosellhispictures,andretainedmanytastesandopinionsofBohemianlife.

‘Thehangingcommittee?Well,I’dsoonerhangmyselfthanbelongtoit!’saidhe,withsweepinggestures.‘AmIanexecutionertokickpoordevils,whooftenhavetoearntheirbread,outofdoors?’

‘Still,youmightrenderusgreatservicebydefendingourpicturesbeforethecommittee,’observedClaude.

‘Oh,dear,no!Ishouldonlymakemattersworseforyou—Idon’tcount;I’mnobody.’

Therewasachorusofprotestations;Fagerollesobjected,inashrillvoice:

‘Well,ifthepainterof“TheVillageWedding”doesnotcount—’

ButBongrandwasgettingangry;hehadrisen,hischeeksafire.

‘Eh?Don’tpestermewith“TheWedding”;IwarnyouIamgettingsickofthatpicture.ItisbecomingaperfectnightmaretomeeversinceithasbeenhungintheLuxembourgMuseum.’

This‘VillageWedding’—apartyofweddingguestsroamingthroughacorn–field,peasantsstudiedfromlife,withanepiclookoftheheroesofHomeraboutthem—hadsofarremainedhismasterpiece.Thepicturehadbroughtaboutanevolutioninart,forithadinauguratedanewformula.ComingafterDelacroix,andparallelwithCourbet,itwasapieceofromanticismtemperedbylogic,withmorecorrectnessofobservation,moreperfectioninthehandling.Andthoughitdidnotsquarelytacklenatureamidstthecrudity

oftheopenair,thenewschoolclaimedconnectionwithit.

‘Therecanbenothingmorebeautiful,’saidClaude,‘thanthetwofirstgroups,thefiddler,andthenthebridewiththeoldpeasant.’

‘Andthestrappingpeasantgirl,too,’addedMahoudeau;theonewhoisturningroundandbeckoning!Ihadagreatmindtotakeherforthemodelofastatue.’

‘Andthatgustofwindamongthecorn,’addedGagniere,‘andtheprettybitoftheboyandgirlskylarkinginthedistance.’

Bongrandsatlisteningwithanembarrassedair,andasmileofinwardsuffering;andwhenFagerollesaskedhimwhathewasdoingjustthen,heanswered,withashrugofhisshoulders:

‘Well,nothing;somelittlethings.ButIsha’n’texhibitthistime.Ishouldliketofindatellingsubject.Ah,youfellowsarehappyatstillbeingatthebottomofthehill.Amanhasgoodlegsthen,hefeelssopluckywhenit’saquestionofgettingup.Butwhenonceheisa–top,thedeucetakeit!theworriesbegin.Arealtorture,fisticuffs,effortswhichmustbeconstantlyrenewed,lestoneshouldslipdowntooquickly.Reallynow,onewouldpreferbeingbelow,forthepleasureofstillhavingeverythingtodo—Ah,youmaylaugh,butyou’llseeitallforyourselvessomeday!’

Theywereindeedlaughing,thinkingitaparadox,oralittlepieceofaffectation,whichtheyexcused.Tobehailed,likeBongrand,withthenameofmaster—wasthatnottheheightofbliss?He,withhisarmsrestingonthebackofhischair,listenedtotheminsilence,leisurelypuffinghispipe,andrenouncingtheideaoftryingtomakethemunderstandhim.

Meanwhile,Dubuche,whohadratherdomesticatedtastes,helpedSandoztohandthetearound,andthedincontinued.FagerollesrelatedastoryaboutDaddyMalgrasandafemalecousinbymarriage,whomthedealerofferedasamodelonconditionsthathewasgivenapresentmentofherinoils.Thentheybegantotalkofmodels.Mahoudeauwaxedfurious,becausethereallywell–builtfemalemodelsweredisappearing.Itwasimpossibletofindonewithadecentfigurenow.Thensuddenlythetumultincreasedagain;GagnierewasbeingcongratulatedaboutaconnoisseurwhoseacquaintancehehadmadeinthePalaisRoyaloneafternoon,whilethebandplayed,aneccentricgentlemanlivingonasmallincome,whoneverindulgedinanyotherextravagancethanthatofbuyingpictures.Theotherartistslaughedandaskedforthegentleman’saddress.Thentheyfellfoulofthepicturedealers,dirtyblack–guards,whopreyedonartistsandstarvedthem.Itwasreallyapitythatconnoisseursmistrustedpainterstosuchadegreeastoinsistuponamiddlemanundertheimpressionthattheywouldthusmakeabetterbargain.Thisquestionofbreadandbutterexcitedthemyetmore,thoughClaudeshowedmagnificentcontemptforitall.Theartistwasrobbed,nodoubt,butwhatdidthatmatter,ifhehadpaintedamasterpiece,andhadsomewatertodrink?Jory,havingagainexpressedsomelowideasaboutlucre,arousedgeneralindignation.Outwiththejournalist!Hewasaskedstringentquestions.Wouldhesellhispen?Wouldhenotsoonerchopoffhiswristthanwriteanythingagainsthisconvictions?Buttheyscarcelywaitedforhisanswer,fortheexcitementwasontheincrease;itbecamethesuperbmadnessofearlymanhood,contemptforthewholeworld,anabsorbingpassionforgoodwork,freedfromallhumanweaknesses,soaringinthesky

likeaverysun.Ah!howstrenuouswastheirdesiretolosethemselves,consumethemselves,inthatbrazieroftheirownkindling!

Bongrand,whohadnotstirredthewhile,madeavaguegestureofsufferingatthesightofthatboundlessconfidence,thatboisterousjoyattheprospectofattack.Heforgotthehundredpaintingswhichhadbroughthimhisglory,hewasthinkingoftheworkwhichhehadleftroughedoutonhiseaselnow.Takinghiscuttyfrombetweenhislips,hemurmured,hiseyesglisteningwithkindliness,‘Oh,youth,youth!’

Untiltwointhemorning,Sandoz,whoseemedubiquitous,keptonpouringfreshsuppliesofhotwaterintotheteapot.Fromtheneighbourhood,nowasleep,onenowonlyheardthemiawingofanamoroustabby.Theyalltalkedatrandom,intoxicatedbytheirownwords,hoarsewithshouting,theireyesscorched,andwhenatlasttheymadeuptheirmindstogo,Sandoztookthelamptoshowthemalightoverthebanisters,sayingverysoftly:

‘Don’tmakeanoise,mymotherisasleep.’

Thehushedtreadoftheirbootsonthestairsdiedawayatlast,anddeepsilencefelluponthehouse.

Itstruckfour.Claude,whohadaccompaniedBongrand,stillwentontalkingtohiminthedesertedstreets.Hedidnotwanttogotobed;hewaswaitingfordaylight,withimpatientfury,sothathemightsettoworkathispictureagain.Thistimehefeltcertainofpaintingamasterpiece,exaltedashewasbythathappydayofgood–fellowship,hismindpregnantwithaworldofthings.Hehaddiscoveredatlastwhatpaintingmeant,andhepicturedhimselfre–enteringhisstudioasonereturnsintothepresenceofawomanoneadores,hisheartthrobbingviolently,regrettingeventhisoneday’sabsence,whichseemedtohimendlessdesertion.Andhewouldgostraighttohiscanvas,andrealisehisdreaminonesitting.However,ateverydozenstepsorso,amidsttheflickeringlightofthegaslamps,Bongrandcaughthimbyabuttonofhiscoat,torepeattohimthat,afterall,paintingwasanaccursedtrade.Sharpashe,Bongrand,wassupposedtobe,hedidnotunderstandityet.Ateachnewworkheundertook,hefeltasifheweremakingadebut;itwasenoughtomakeonesmashone’sheadagainstthewall.Theskywasnowbrightening,somemarketgardeners’cartsbeganrollingdowntowardsthecentralmarkets;andthepaircontinuedchattering,eachtalkingforhimself,inaloudvoice,beneaththepalingstars.

[7]TheallusionistotheFrenchArtSchoolatRome,andthecompetitionsintowhichstudentsentertoobtainadmissiontoit,ortosecuretheprizesofferedforthebestexhibitswhich,duringtheirtermofresidence,theysendtoParis.—ED.[8]ThereaderwillbearinmindthatallthesecomplaintsmadebyClaudeandhisfriendsapplytotheoldSalons,asorganizedunderGovernmentcontrol,atthetimeoftheSecondEmpire.—ED.

IVSIXweekslater,Claudewaspaintingonemorningamidstafloodofsunshinethatstreamedthroughthelargewindowofhisstudio.ConstantrainhadmadethemiddleofAugustverydull,buthiscourageforworkreturnedwiththebluesky.Hisgreatpicturedidnotmakemuchprogress,albeitheworkedatitthroughoutlong,silentmornings,liketheobstinate,pugnaciousfellowhewas.

Allatoncetherecameaknockathisdoor.HethoughtthatMadameJoseph,thedoorkeeper,wasbringinguphislunch,andasthekeywasalwaysinthedoor,hesimplycalled:‘Comein!’

Thedoorhadopened;therewasaslightrustle,andthenallbecamestill.Hewentonpaintingwithouteventurninghishead.Butthequiveringsilence,andtheconsciousnessofsomevaguegentlebreathingnearhim,atlastmadehimfidgety.Helookedup,andfeltamazed;awomanstoodtherecladinalightgown,herfeatureshalf–hiddenbyawhiteveil,andhedidnotknowher,andshewascarryingabunchofroses,whichcompletedhisbewilderment.

Allatonceherecognisedher.

‘You,mademoiselle?Well,Icertainlydidn’texpectyou!’

ItwasChristine.Hehadbeenunabletorestrainthatsomewhatunamiableexclamation,whichwasacryfromtheheartitself.Atfirsthehadcertainlythoughtofher;then,asthedayswentbyfornearlyacoupleofmonthswithoutsignoflifefromher,shehadbecomeforhimmerelyafleeting,regrettedvision,acharmingsilhouettewhichhadmeltedawayinspace,andwouldneverbeseenagain.

‘Yes,monsieur,it’sI.Iwishedtocome.Ithoughtitwaswrongnottocomeandthankyou—’

Sheblushedandstammered,atalossforwords.Shewasoutofbreath,nodoubtthroughclimbingthestairs,forherheartwasbeatingfast.What!wasthislong–debatedvisitoutofplaceafterall?Ithadendedbyseemingquitenaturaltoher.Theworstwasthat,inpassingalongthequay,shehadboughtthatbunchofroseswiththedelicateintentionoftherebyshowinghergratitudetotheyoungfellow,andtheflowersnowdreadfullyembarrassedher.Howwasshetogivethemtohim?Whatwouldhethinkofher?Theimproprietyofthewholeproceedinghadonlystruckherassheopenedthedoor.

ButClaude,moreembarrassedstill,resortedtoexaggeratedpoliteness.Hehadthrownasidehispaletteandwasturningthestudioupsidedowninordertoclearachair.

‘Praybeseated,mademoiselle.Thisisreallyasurprise.Youaretookind.’

Onceseated,Christinerecoveredherequanimity.Helookedsodrollwithhiswildsweepinggestures,andshefeltsoconsciousofhisshynessthatshebegantosmile,andbravelyheldoutthebunchofroses.

‘Lookhere;IwishedtoshowyouthatIamnotungrateful.’

Atfirsthesaidnothing,butstoodstaringather,thunderstruck.Whenhesaw,though,thatshewasnotmakingfunofhim,heshookbothherhands,withalmostsufficientenergytodislocatethem.Thenheatonceputtheflowersinhiswater–jug,repeating:

‘Ah!nowyouareagoodfellow,youreallyare.ThisisthefirsttimeIpaythatcomplimenttoawoman,honourbright.’

Hecamebacktoher,and,lookingstraightintohereyes,heasked:

‘Thenyouhavenotaltogetherforgottenme?’

‘YouseethatIhavenot,’shereplied,laughing.

‘Why,then,didyouwaittwomonthsbeforecomingtoseeme?’

Againsheblushed.Thefalsehoodshewasabouttotellrevivedherembarrassmentforamoment.

‘ButyouknowthatIamnotmyownmistress,’shesaid.‘Oh,MadameVanzadeisverykindtome,onlysheisagreatinvalid,andneverleavesthehouse.Butshegrewanxiousastomyhealthandcompelledmetogoouttobreathealittlefreshair.’

ShedidnotalludetotheshamewhichshehadfeltduringthefirstfewdaysafterheradventureontheQuaideBourbon.Findingherselfinsafety,beneaththeoldlady’sroof,therecollectionofthenightshehadspentinClaude’sroomhadfilledherwithremorse;butshefanciedatlastthatshehadsucceededindismissingthematterfromhermind.Itwasnolongeranythingbutabaddream,whichgrewmoreindistincteachday.Then,howitwasshecouldnottell,butamidsttheprofoundquietudeofherexistence,theimageofthatyoungmanwhohadbefriendedherhadreturnedtoheroncemore,becomingmoreandmoreprecise,tillatlastitoccupiedherdailythoughts.Whyshouldsheforgethim?Shehadnothingtoreproachhimwith;onthecontrary,shefeltshewashisdebtor.Thethoughtofseeinghimagain,dismissedatfirst,struggledagainstlateron,atlastbecameanall–absorbingcraving.Eacheveningthetemptationtogoandseehimcamestronguponherinthesolitudeofherownroom.Sheexperiencedanuncomfortableirritatingfeeling,avaguedesirewhichshecouldnotdefine,andonlycalmeddownsomewhatonascribingthistroubledstateofmindtoawishtoevincehergratitude.Shewassoutterlyalone,shefeltsostifledinthatsleepyabode,theexuberanceofyouthseethedsostronglywithinher,herheartcravedsodesperatelyforfriendship!

‘SoItookadvantageofmyfirstdayout,’shecontinued.‘Andbesides,theweatherwassonicethismorningafterallthedullrain.’

Claude,feelingveryhappyandstandingbeforeher,alsoconfessedhimself,buthehadnothingtohide.

‘Formypart,’saidhe,‘Idarednotthinkofyouanymore.Youarelikeoneofthefairiesofthestory–books,whospringfromtheflooranddisappearintothewallsattheverymomentoneleastexpectsit;aren’tyounow?Isaidtomyself,“It’sallover:itwasperhapsonlyinmyfancythatIsawhercometothisstudio.”Yethereyouare.Well,Iampleasedatit,verypleasedindeed.’

Smiling,butembarrassed,Christineavertedherhead,pretendingtolookaroundher.Buthersmilesoondiedaway.Theferocious–lookingpaintingswhichsheagainbeheld,the

glaringsketchesoftheSouth,theterribleanatomicalaccuracyofthestudiesfromthenude,allchilledherasonthefirstoccasion.Shebecamereallyafraidagain,andshesaidgravely,inanalteredvoice:

‘Iamdisturbingyou;Iamgoing.’

‘Oh!notatall,notatall,’exclaimedClaude,preventingherfromrising.‘Itdoesmegoodtohaveatalkwithyou,forIwasworkingmyselftodeath.Oh!thatconfoundedpicture;it’skillingmeasitis.’

ThereuponChristine,liftinghereyes,lookedatthelargepicture,thecanvasthathadbeenturnedtothewallonthepreviousoccasion,andwhichshehadvainlywishedtosee.

Thebackground—thedarkgladepiercedbyafloodofsunlight—wasstillonlybroadlybrushedin.Butthetwolittlewrestlers—thefaironeandthedark—almostfinishedbynow,showedclearlyinthelight.Intheforeground,thegentlemaninthevelveteenjacket,threetimesbegunafresh,hadnowbeenleftindistress.Thepainterwasmoreparticularlyworkingattheprincipalfigure,thewomanlyingonthegrass.Hehadnottouchedtheheadagain.Hewasbattlingwiththebody,changinghismodeleveryweek,sodespondentatbeingunabletosatisfyhimselfthatforacoupleofdayshehadbeentryingtoimprovethefigurefromimagination,withoutrecoursetonature,althoughheboastedthatheneverinvented.

Christineatoncerecognisedherself.Yes,thatnudegirlsprawlingonthegrass,onearmbehindherhead,smilingwithloweredeyelids,washerself,forshehadherfeatures.Theideaabsolutelyrevoltedher,andshewaswoundedtoobythewildnessofthepainting,sobrutalindeedthatsheconsideredherselfabominablyinsulted.Shedidnotunderstandthatkindofart;shethoughtitexecrable,andfeltahatredagainstit,theinstinctivehatredofanenemy.Sheroseatlast,andcurtlyrepeated,‘Imustbegoing.’

Claudewatchedherattentively,bothgrievedandsurprisedbyhersuddenchangeofmanner.

‘Goingalready?’

‘Yes,theyarewaitingforme.Good–bye.’

Andshehadalreadyreachedthedoorbeforehecouldtakeherhand,andventuretoaskher:

‘WhenshallIseeyouagain?’

Sheallowedherhandtoremaininhis.Foramomentsheseemedtohesitate.

‘Idon’tknow.Iamsobusy.’

Thenshewithdrewherhandandwentoff,hastily,saying:‘Oneofthesedays,whenIcan.Good–bye.’

Clauderemainedstock–stillonthethreshold.Hewonderedwhathadcomeoverheragaintocausehersuddencoolness,hercovertirritation.Heclosedthedoor,andwalkedabout,withdanglingarms,andwithoutunderstanding,seekingvainlyforthephrase,thegesturethatcouldhaveoffendedher.Andheinhisturnbecameangry,andlaunchedanoathintospace,withaterrificshrugoftheshoulders,asiftoridhimselfofthissillyworry.Dida

maneverunderstandwomen?However,thesightoftheroses,overlappingthewater–jug,pacifiedhim;theysmeltsosweet.Theirscentpervadedthewholestudio,andsilentlyheresumedhisworkamidsttheperfume.

Twomoremonthspassedby.DuringtheearlierdaysClaude,attheslighteststirofamorning,whenMadameJosephbroughthimuphisbreakfastorhisletters,quicklyturnedhishead,andcouldnotcontrolagestureofdisappointment.Henolongerwentoutuntilafterfour,andthedoorkeeperhavingtoldhimoneevening,onhisreturnhome,thatayoungpersonhadcalledtoseehimataboutfive,hehadonlygrowncalmonascertainingthatthevisitorwasmerelyamodel,ZoePiedefer.Then,asthedayswentby,hewasseizedwithafuriousfitofwork,becomingunapproachabletoeveryone,indulginginsuchviolenttheoriesthatevenhisfriendsdidnotventuretocontradicthim.Heswepttheworldfromhispathwithonegesture;therewasnolongertobeanythingbutpaintingleft.Onemightmurderone’sparents,comrades,andwomenespecially,anditwouldallbeagoodriddance.Afterthisterriblefeverhefellintoabominabledespondency,spendingaweekofimpotenceanddoubt,awholeweekoftorture,duringwhichhefanciedhimselfstrucksilly.Buthewasgettingoverit,hehadresumedhisusuallife,hisresignedsolitarystrugglewithhisgreatpicture,whenonefoggymorning,towardstheendofOctober,hestartedandhastilysethispaletteaside.Therehadbeennoknock,buthehadjustrecognisedthefootfallcomingupthestairs.Heopenedthedoorandshewalkedin.Shehadcomeatlast.

Christinethatdayworealargecloakofgreymaterialwhichenvelopedherfromheadtofoot.Herlittlevelvethatwasdark,andthefogoutsidehadpearledherblacklaceveil.Buthethoughtherlookingverycheerful,withthefirstslightshiverofwinteruponher.Sheatoncebegantomakeexcusesforhavingsolongdelayedherreturn.Shesmiledathiminherprettycandidmanner,confessedthatshehadhesitated,andthatshehadalmostmadeuphermindtocomenomore.Yes,shehadherownopinionsaboutthings,whichshefeltsureheunderstood.Asithappened,hedidnotunderstandatall—hehadnowishtounderstand,seeingthatshewasthere.Itwasquitesufficientthatshewasnotvexedwithhim,thatshewouldconsenttolookinnowandthenlikeachum.Therewerenoexplanations;theykepttheirrespectivetormentsandthestrugglesofrecenttimestothemselves.Fornearlyanhourtheychattedtogetherrightpleasantly,withnothinghiddennorantagonisticremainingbetweenthem;itwasasifanunderstandinghadbeenarrivedat,unknowntothemselves,andwhiletheywerefarapart.Shedidnotevenappeartonoticethesketchesandstudiesonthewalls.Foramomentshelookedfixedlyatthelargepicture,atthefigureofthewomanlyingonthegrassundertheblazinggoldensun.No,itwasnotlikeherself,thatgirlhadneitherherfacenorherbody.Howsillytohavefanciedthatsuchahorridmessofcolourwasherself!Andherfriendshipfortheyoungfellowwasheightenedbyatouchofpity;hecouldnotevenconveyalikeness.Whenshewentoff,itwasshewhoonthethresholdcordiallyheldoutherhand.

‘Youknow,Ishallcomebackagain—’

‘Yes,intwomonths’time.’

‘No,nextweek.You’llsee,nextThursday.’

OntheThursdayshepunctuallyreturned,andafterthatshedidnotmissaweek.Atfirst

shehadnoparticulardayforcalling,simplytakingadvantageofheropportunities;butsubsequentlysheselectedMonday,thedayallowedherbyMadameVanzadeinorderthatshemighthaveawalkinthefresh,openairoftheBoisdeBoulogne.Shehadtobebackhomebyeleven,andshewalkedthewholewayveryquickly,cominginallaglowfromtherun,foritwasalongstretchfromPassytotheQuaideBourbon.Duringfourwintermonths,fromOctobertoFebruary,shecameinthisfashion,nowindrenchingrain,nowamongthemistsfromtheSeine,nowinthepalesunlightthatthrewalittlewarmthoverthequays.Indeed,afterthefirstmonth,sheattimesarrivedunexpectedly,takingadvantageofsomeerrandintowntolookin,andthenshecouldonlystayforacoupleofminutes;theyhadbarelyhadtimeenoughtosay‘Howdoyoudo?’whenshewasalreadyscamperingdownthestairsagain,exclaiming‘Good–bye.’

AndnowClaudelearnedtoknowChristine.Withhiseverlastingmistrustofwomanasuspicionhadremainedtohim,thesuspicionofsomeloveadventureintheprovinces;butthegirl’ssofteyesandbrightlaughterhadcarriedallbeforethem;hefeltthatshewasasinnocentasabigchild.Assoonasshearrived,quiteunembarrassed,feelingfullyatherease,aswithafriend,shebegantoindulgeinaceaselessflowofchatter.ShehadtoldhimascoreoftimesaboutherchildhoodatClermont,andsheconstantlyrevertedtoit.Ontheeveningthatherfather,CaptainHallegrain,hadsuddenlydied,sheandhermotherhadbeentochurch.Sheperfectlyrememberedtheirreturnhomeandthehorriblenightthathadfollowed;thecaptain,verystoutandmuscular,lyingstretchedonamattress,withhislowerjawprotrudingtosuchadegreethatinhergirlishmemoryshecouldnotpicturehimotherwise.Shealsohadthatsamejaw,andwhenhermotherhadnotknownhowtomasterher,shehadoftencried:‘Ah,mygirl,you’lleatyourheart’sbloodoutlikeyourfather.’Poormother!howshe,Christine,hadworriedherwithherloveofhorseplay,withhermadturbulentfits.Asfarbackasshecouldremember,shepicturedhermothereverseatedatthesamewindow,quietlypaintingfans,aslimlittlewomanwithverysofteyes,theonlythingshehadinheritedofher.Whenpeoplewantedtopleasehermothertheytoldher,‘shehasgotyoureyes.’Andthenshesmiled,happyinthethoughtofhavingcontributedatleastthattouchofsweetnesstoherdaughter’sfeatures.Afterthedeathofherhusband,shehadworkedsolateastoendangerhereyesight.Buthowelsecouldshehavelived?Herwidow’spension—fivehundredfrancsperannum—barelysufficedfortheneedsofherchild.ForfiveyearsChristinehadseenhermothergrowthinnerandpaler,wastingawayalittlebiteachdayuntilshebecameamereshadow.Andnowshefeltremorsefulatnothavingbeenmoreobedient,athavingdrivenhermothertodespairbylackofapplication.Shehadbeguneachweekwithmagnificentintentions,promisingthatshewouldsoonhelphertoearnmoney;butherarmsandlegsgotthefidgets,inspiteofherefforts;themomentshebecamequietshefellill.Thenonemorninghermotherhadbeenunabletogetup,andhaddied;hervoicetooweaktomakeitselfheard,hereyesfullofbigtears.EverdidChristinebeholdherthusdead,withherweepingeyeswideopenandfixedonher.

Atothertimes,Christine,whenquestionedbyClaudeaboutClermont,forgotthosesorrowstorecallmorecheerfulmemories.Shelaughedgailyattheideaoftheirencampment,asshecalledit,intheRuedel’Eclache;sheborninStrasburg,herfatheraGascon,hermotheraParisian,andallthreethrownintothatnookofAuvergne,whichtheydetested.TheRuedel’Eclache,slopingdowntotheBotanicalGardens,wasnarrow

anddank,gloomy,likeavault.Notashop,neverapasser–by—nothingbutmelancholyfrontages,withshuttersalwaysclosed.Attheback,however,theirwindows,overlookingsomecourtyards,wereturnedtothefullsunlight.Thedining–roomopenedevenontoaspaciousbalcony,akindofwoodengallery,whosearcadeswerehungwithagiantwistariawhichalmostsmotheredthemwithfoliage.Andthegirlhadgrownupthere,atfirstnearherinvalidfather,thencloistered,asitwere,withhermother,whomtheleastexertionexhausted.Shehadremainedsocompleteastrangertothetownanditsneighbourhood,thatClaudeandherselfburstintolaughterwhenshemethisinquirieswiththeconstantanswer,‘Idon’tknow.’Themountains?Yes,thereweremountainsononeside,theycouldbeseenattheendofthestreets;whileontheothersideofthetown,afterpassingalongotherstreets,therewereflatfieldsstretchingfaraway;butsheneverwentthere,thedistancewastoogreat.TheonlyheightsherememberedwasthePuydeDome,roundedoffatthesummitlikeahump.Inthetownitselfshecouldhavefoundherwaytothecathedralblindfold;onehadtoturnroundbythePlacedeJaudeandtaketheRuedesGras;butmorethanthatshecouldnottellhim;therestofthetownwasanentanglement,amazeofslopinglanesandboulevards;atownofblacklavaeverdippingdownward,wheretherainofthethunderstormssweptbytorrentiallyamidstformidableflashesoflightning.Oh!thosestorms;shestillshudderedtothinkofthem.Justoppositeherroom,abovetheroofs,thelightningconductorofthemuseumwasalwaysonfire.Inthesitting–roomshehadherownwindow—adeeprecessasbigasaroomitself—whereherwork–tableandpersonalnick–nacksstood.Itwastherethathermotherhadtaughthertoread;itwastherethat,lateron,shehadfallenasleepwhilelisteningtohermasters,sogreatlydidthefatigueoflearningdazeher.Andnowshemadefunofherownignorance;shewasawell–educatedyounglady,andnomistake,unableeventorepeatthenamesoftheKingsofFrance,withthedatesoftheiraccessions;afamousmusiciantoo,whohadnevergotfurtherthanthatelementarypianoforteexercise,‘Thelittleboats’;aprodigyinwater–colourpainting,whoscampedhertreesbecausefoliagewastoodifficulttoimitate.Thensheskipped,withoutanytransition,tothefifteenmonthsshehadspentattheConventoftheVisitationafterhermother’sdeath—alargeconvent,outsidethetown,withmagnificentgardens.Therewasnoendtoherstoriesaboutthegoodsisters,theirjealousies,theirfoolishdoings,theirsimplicity,thatmadeonestart.Shewastohavetakentheveil,butshefeltstifledthemomentsheenteredachurch.Ithadseemedtobealloverwithher,whentheSuperior,bywhomshewastreatedwithgreataffection,divertedherfromthecloisterbyprocuringherthatsituationatMadameVanzade’s.Shehadnotyetgotoverthesurprise.HowhadMotherdesSaintsAngesbeenabletoreadhermindsoclearly?For,infact,sinceshehadbeenlivinginParisshehaddroppedintocompleteindifferenceaboutreligion.

WhenallthereminiscencesofClermontwereexhausted,ClaudewantedtohearaboutherlifeatMadameVanzade’s,andeachweekshegavehimfreshparticulars.ThelifeledinthelittlehouseatPassy,silentandshutofffromtheouterworld,wasaveryregularone,withnomorenoiseaboutitthanthefainttic–tacofanold–fashionedtimepiece.Twoantiquateddomestics,acookandamanservant,whohadbeenwiththefamilyforfortyyears,aloneglidedintheirslippersaboutthedesertedrooms,likeacoupleofghosts.Nowandthen,atverylongintervals,therecameavisitor:someoctogenariangeneral,sodesiccated,soslightofbuildthathescarcelypressedonthecarpet.Thehousewasalsothehomeofshadows;thesunfilteredwiththemeregleamofanightlightthroughthe

Venetianblinds.Sincemadamehadbecomeparalysedinthekneesandstoneblind,sothatshenolongerleftherroom,shehadhadnootherrecreationthanthatoflisteningtothereadingofreligiousbooks.Ah!thoseendlessreadings,howtheyweigheduponthegirlattimes!Ifshehadonlyknownatrade,howgladlyshewouldhavecutoutdresses,concoctedbonnets,orgofferedthepetalsofartificialflowers.Andtothinkthatshewascapableofnothing,whenshehadbeentaughteverything,andthattherewasonlyenoughstuffinhertomakeasalarieddrudge,asemi–domestic!Shesufferedhorribly,too,inthatstiff,lonelydwellingwhichsmeltofthetomb.Shewasseizedoncemorewiththevertigoofherchildhood,aswhenshehadstriventocompelherselftowork,inordertopleasehermother;herbloodrebelled;shewouldhavelikedtoshoutandjumpabout,inherdesireforlife.Butmadametreatedhersogently,sendingherawayfromherroom,andorderinghertotakelongwalks,thatshefeltfullofremoraswhen,onherreturntotheQuaideBourbon,shewasobligedtotellafalsehood;totalkoftheBoisdeBoulogneorinventsomeceremonyatchurchwhereshenowneversetfoot.Madameseemedtotaketohermoreandmoreeveryday;therewereconstantpresents,nowasilkdress,nowatinygoldwatch,evensomeunderlinen.SheherselfwasveryfondofMadameVanzade;shehadweptonedaywhenthelatterhadcalledherdaughter;shehadswornnevertoleaveher,suchwasherheart–feltpityatseeinghersooldandhelpless.

‘Well,’saidClaudeonemorning,‘you’llberewarded;she’llleaveyouhermoney.’

Christinelookedastonished.‘Doyouthinkso?Itissaidthatsheisworththreemillionsoffrancs.No,no,Ihaveneverdreamtofsuchathing,andIwon’t.Whatwouldbecomeofme?’

Claudehadavertedhishead,andhastilyreplied,‘Well,you’dbecomerich,that’sall.Butnodoubtshe’llfirstofallmarryyouoff—’

Onhearingthis,Christinecouldholdoutnolonger,butburstintolaughter.‘Tooneofheroldfriends,eh?perhapsthegeneralwhohasasilverchin.Whatagoodjoke!’

Sofartheyhadgonenofurtherthanchumminglikeoldfriends.Hewasalmostasnewtolifeasshe,havinghadnothingbutchanceadventures,andlivinginanidealworldofhisown,fancifulamidromanticamours.Toseeeachotherinsecretlikethis,frompurefriendship,withoutanythingmoretenderpassingbetweenthemthanacordialshakeofthehandatherarrival,andanotheronewhensheleft,seemedtothemquitenatural.Stillforherpartshescentedthathewasshy,andattimesshelookedathimfixedly,withthewonderingperturbationofunconsciouspassion.Butasyetnothingardentoragitatingspoiltthepleasuretheyfeltinbeingtogether.Theirhandsremainedcool;theyspokecheerfullyonallsubjects;theysometimesarguedlikefriends,whofeelsuretheywillnotfallout.Only,thisfriendshipgrewsokeenthattheycouldnolongerlivewithoutseeingoneanother.

ThemomentChristinecame,Claudetookthekeyfromoutsidethedoor.Sheherselfinsisteduponthis,lestsomebodymightdisturbthem.Afterafewvisitsshehadtakenabsolutepossessionofthestudio.Sheseemedtobeathomethere.Shewastormentedbyadesiretomaketheplacealittlemoretidy,forsuchdisorderworriedherandmadeheruncomfortable.Butitwasnotaneasymatter.ThepainterhadstrictlyforbiddenMadameJosephtosweepupthings,lestthedustshouldgetonthefreshpaint.So,onthefirst

occasionswhenhiscompanionattemptedtocleanupabit,hewatchedherwithanxiousentreatingeyes.Whatwasthegoodofchangingtheplaceofthings?Didn’titsufficetohavethemathand?However,sheexhibitedsuchgaydetermination,sheseemedsohappyatplayingthehousewife,thatheletherhaveherownwayatlast.Andnow,themomentshehadarrivedandtakenoffhergloves,shepinnedupherdresstoavoidsoilingit,andsetthebigstudioinorderinthetwinklingofaneye.Therewasnolongerapileofcindersbeforethestove;thescreenhidthebedsteadandthewashstand;thecouchwasbrushed,thewardrobepolished;thedealtablewasclearedofthecrockery,andhadnotastainofpaint;andabovethechairs,whichweresymmetricallyarranged,andthespannedeaselsproppedagainstthewalls,thebigcuckooclock,withfull–blownpinkflowersonitsdial,seemedtotickmoresonorously.Altogetheritwasmagnificent;onewouldnothaverecognisedtheplace.He,stupefied,watchedhertrottingtoandfro,twistingaboutandsingingasshewent.Wasthisthenthelazyboneswhohadsuchdreadfulheadachesattheleastbitofwork?Butshelaughed;atheadwork,yes;butexertionwithherhandsandfeetdidhergood,seemedtostraightenherlikeayoungsapling.Sheconfessed,evenasshewouldhaveconfessedsomedepravedtaste,herlikingforlowlyhouseholdcares;alikingwhichhadgreatlyworriedhermother,whoseeducationalidealconsistedofaccomplishments,andwhowouldhavemadeheragovernesswithsofthands,touchingnothingvulgar.HowChristinehadbeenchidedindeedwhenevershewascaught,asalittlegirl,sweeping,dusting,andplayingdelightedlyatbeingcook!Evennowadays,ifshehadbeenabletoindulgeinaboutwiththedustatMadameVanzade’s,shewouldhavefeltlessbored.Butwhatwouldtheyhavesaidtothat?Shewouldnolongerhavebeenconsideredalady.AndsoshecametosatisfyherlongingsattheQuaideBourbon,pantingwiththeexercise,allaglow,hereyesglisteningwithawoman’sdelightatbitingintoforbiddenfruit.

Claudebythistimegrewconsciousofhavingawoman’scarearoundhim.Inordertomakehersitdownandchatquietly,hewouldaskhernowandthentosewatorncufforcoat–tail.Sheherselfhadofferedtolookoverhislinen;butitwasnolongerwiththeardourofahousewife,eagertobeupanddoing.Firstofall,shehardlyknewhowtowork;sheheldherneedlelikeagirlbroughtupincontemptofsewing.Besides,theenforcedquiescenceandtheattentionthathadtobegiventosuchwork,thesmallstitcheswhichhadtobelookedtoonebyone,exasperatedher.Thusthestudiowasbrightwithcleanlinesslikeadrawing–room,butClaudehimselfremainedinrags,andtheybothjokedaboutit,thinkingitgreatfun.

Howhappywerethosemonthsthattheyspenttogether,thosefourmonthsoffrostandrainwhiledawayinthestudio,wherethered–hotstoveroaredlikeanorgan–pipe!Thewinterseemedtoisolatethemfromtheworldstillmore.Whenthesnowcoveredtheadjacentroofs,whenthesparrowsflutteredagainstthewindow,theysmiledatfeelingwarmandcosy,atbeinglost,asitwere,amidstthegreatsilentcity.Buttheydidnotalwaysconfinethemselvestothatonelittlenook,forsheallowedhimatlasttoseeherhome.Foralongwhileshehadinsistedupongoingawaybyherself,feelingashamedofbeingseeninthestreetsonaman’sarm.Then,onedaywhentherainfellallofasudden,shewasobligedtolethimcomedownstairswithanumbrella.Therainhavingceasedalmostimmediately,shesenthimbackwhentheyreachedtheothersideofthePontLouis–Philippe.Theyonlyremainedafewmomentsbesidetheparapet,lookingattheMail,andhappyatbeing

togetherintheopenair.Downbelow,largebarges,mooredagainstthequay,andfullofapples,wererangedfourrowsdeep,soclosetogetherthattheplanksthrownacrossthemmadeacontinuouspathforthewomenandchildrenrunningtoandfro.Theywereamusedbythesightofallthatfruit,thoseenormouspileslitteringthebanks,theroundbasketswhichwerecarriedhitherandthither,whileastrongodour,suggestiveofciderinfermentation,mingledwiththemoistgustsfromtheriver.

Aweeklater,whenthesunagainshoweditself,andClaudeextolledthesolitudeofthequaysroundtheIsleSaintLouis,Christineconsentedtotakeawalk.TheystrolleduptheQuaideBourbonandtheQuaid’Anjou,pausingateveryfewstepsandgrowinginterestedinthevariousscenesofriverlife;thedredgerwhosebucketsgratedagainsttheirchains,thefloatingwash–house,whichresoundedwiththehubbubofaquarrel,andthesteamcranesbusyunloadingthelighters.Shedidnotceasetowonderatonethoughtwhichcametoher.WasitpossiblethatyonderQuaidesOrmes,sofulloflifeacrossthestream,thatthisQuaiHenriIV.,withitsbroadembankmentandlowershore,wherebandsofchildrenanddogsrolledoverinthesand,thatthispanoramaofanactive,densely–populatedcapitalwasthesameaccursedscenethathadappearedtoherforamomentinagoryflashonthenightofherarrival?Theywentroundthepointoftheisland,strollingmoreleisurelystilltoenjoythesolitudeandtranquillitywhichtheoldhistoricmansionsseemtohaveimplantedthere.TheywatchedthewaterseethingbetweenthewoodenpilesoftheEstacade,andreturnedbywayoftheQuaideBethuneandtheQuaid’Orleans,instinctivelydrawnclosertoeachotherbythewideningofthestream,keepingelbowtoelbowatsightofthevastflow,withtheireyesfixedonthedistantHalleauxVinsandtheJardindesPlantes.Inthepalesky,thecupolasofthepublicbuildingsassumedabluishhue.WhentheyreachedthePontSt.Louis,ClaudehadtopointoutNotre–Damebyname,forChristinedidnotrecognisetheedificefromtherear,whereitlookedlikeacolossalcreaturecrouchingdownbetweenitsflyingbuttresses,whichsuggestedsprawlingpaws,whileaboveitslongleviathanspineitstowersroselikeadoublehead.Theirrealfindthatday,however,wasatthewesternpointoftheisland,thatpointliketheprowofashipalwaysridingatanchor,afloatbetweentwoswiftcurrents,insightofParis,buteverunabletogetintoport.Theywentdownsomeverysteepstepsthere,anddiscoveredasolitarybankplantedwithloftytrees.Itwasacharmingrefuge—ahermitageinthemidstofacrowd.Pariswasrumblingaroundthem,onthequays,onthebridges,whiletheyatthewater’sedgetastedthedelightofbeingalone,ignoredbythewholeworld.Fromthatdayforththatbankbecamealittlerusticcoignoftheirs,afavouriteopen–airresort,wheretheytookadvantageofthesunnyhours,whenthegreatheatofthestudio,wherethered–hotstovekeptroaring,oppressedthemtoomuch,fillingtheirhandswithafeverofwhichtheywereafraid.

Nevertheless,ChristinehadsofarobjectedtobeaccompaniedfartherthantheMail.AttheQuaidesOrmesshealwaysbadeClaudegoback,asifParis,withhercrowdsandpossibleencounters,beganatthelongstretchofquayswhichshehadtotraverseonherwayhome.ButPassywassofaroff,andshefeltsodullathavingtogosuchadistancealone,thatgraduallyshegaveway.ShebeganbyallowingClaudetoseeherasfarastheHoteldeVille;thenasfarasthePont–Neuf;atlastasfarastheTuileries.Sheforgotthedanger;theywalkedarminarmlikeayoungmarriedcouple;andthatconstantlyrepeatedpromenade,thatleisurelyjourneyovertheself–samegroundbytheriverside,acquiredan

infinitecharm,fullofahappinesssuchascouldscarcelybesurpassedinafter–times.Theytrulybelongedtoeachother,thoughtheyhadnoterred.Itseemedasiftheverysoulofthegreatcity,risingfromtheriver,wrappedthemaroundwithallthelovethathadthrobbedbehindthegreystonewallsthroughthelonglapseofages.

SincethenippingcoldsofDecember,Christineonlycameintheafternoon,anditwasaboutfouro’clock,whenthesunwassinking,thatClaudeescortedherbackonhisarm.Ondayswhentheskywasclear,theycouldseethelonglineofquaysstretchingawayintospacedirectlytheyhadcrossedthePontLouis–Philippe.Fromoneendtotheothertheslantingsunpowderedthehousesontherightbankwithgoldendust,while,ontheleft,theislets,thebuildings,stoodoutinablacklineagainsttheblazinggloryofthesunset.Betweenthesombreandthebrilliantmargin,thespangledriversparkled,cutintwaineverynowandthenbythelongbarsofitsbridges;thefivearchesofthePontNotre–DameshowingunderthesinglespanofthePontd’Arcole;thenthePont–au–ChangeandthePont–Neuf,beyondeachofwhoseshadowsappearedaluminouspatch,asheetofbluishsatinywater,growingpalerhereandtherewithamirror–likereflection.AndwhiletheduskyoutlinesontheleftterminatedinthesilhouettesofthepointedtowersofthePalaisdeJustice,sharplyanddarklydefinedagainstthesky,agentlecurveundulatedontheright,stretchingawaysofarthatthePavillondeFlore,whostoodforthlikeacitadelatthecurve’sextremeend,seemedafairycastle,bluey,dreamlikeandvague,amidsttherosymistonthehorizon.ButClaudeandChristine,withthesunlightstreamingonthem,athwarttheleaflessplanetrees,turnedawayfromthedazzlement,preferringtogazeatcertainspots,oneaboveall—ablockofoldhousesjustabovetheMail.Below,therewasaseriesofone–storiedtenements,littlehucksterandfishing–tackleshops,withflatterraceroofs,ornamentedwithlaurelandVirginiacreeper.Andintherearroseloftier,butdecrepit,dwellings,withlinenhungouttodryattheirwindows,acollectionoffantasticstructures,aconfusedmassofwoodworkandmasonry,overtopplingwalls,andhanginggardens,inwhichcolouredglassballsshoneoutlikestars.Theywalkedon,leavingbehindthemthebigbarracksandtheHoteldeVille,andfeelingmuchmoreinterestintheCitewhichappearedacrosstheriver,pentbetweenloftysmoothembankmentsrisingfromthewater.AbovethedarkenedhousesrosethetowersofNotre–Dame,asresplendentasiftheyhadbeennewlygilt.Thenthesecond–handbookstallsbegantoinvadethequays.DownbelowalighterfullofcharcoalstruggledagainstthestrongcurrentbeneathanarchofthePontNotre–Dame.Andthen,onthedayswhentheflowermarketwasheld,theystopped,despitetheinclementweather,toinhalethescentofthefirstvioletsandtheearlygillyflowers.Ontheirleftalongstretchofbanknowbecamevisible;beyondthepepper–casterturretsofthePalaisdeJustice,thesmall,murkytenementsoftheQuaidel’HorlogeshowedasfarastheclumpoftreesmidwayacrossthePont–Neuf;then,astheywentfartheron,otherquaysemergedfromthemist,inthefardistance:theQuaiVoltaire,theQuaiMalaquais,thedomeoftheInstituteofFrance,thesquarepileoftheMint,alonggreylineoffrontagesofwhichtheycouldnotevendistinguishthewindows,apromontoryofroofs,which,withtheirstacksofchimney–pots,lookedlikesomeruggedcliff,dippingdownintoaphosphorescentsea.Infront,however,thePavillondeFlorelostitsdreamyaspect,andbecamesolidifiedinthefinalsunblaze.Thenrightandleft,oneitherbankoftheriver,camethelongvistasoftheBoulevarddeSebastopolandtheBoulevardduPalais;thehandsomenewbuildingsoftheQuaidelaMegisserie,withthenewPrefectureofPoliceacrossthewater;andtheoldPont–Neuf,withitsstatueofHenriIV.lookinglike

asplashofink.TheLouvre,theTuileriesfollowed,andbeyondGrenelletherewasafar–stretchingpanoramaoftheslopesofSevres,thecountrysteepedinastreamofsunrays.Claudeneverwentfarther.ChristinealwaysmadehimstopjustbeforetheyreachedthePontRoyal,nearthefinetreesbesideVigier’sswimmingbaths;andwhentheyturnedroundtoshakehandsoncemoreinthegoldensunsetnowflushingintocrimson,theylookedbackand,onthehorizon,espiedtheIsleSaintLouis,whencetheyhadcome,theindistinctdistanceofthecityuponwhichnightwasalreadydescendingfromtheslate–huedeasternsky.

Ah!whatsplendidsunsetstheybeheldduringthoseweeklystrolls.Thesunaccompaniedthem,asitwere,amidthethrobbinggaietyofthequays,theriverlife,thedancingripplesofthecurrents;amidtheattractionsoftheshops,aswarmasconservatories,theflowerssoldbytheseedmerchants,andthenoisycagesofthebirdfanciers;amidallthedinofsoundandwealthofcolourwhichevermakeacity’swatersideitsyouthfulpart.Astheyproceeded,theardentblazeofthewesternskyturnedtopurpleontheirleft,abovethedarklineofhouses,andtheorbofdayseemedtowaitforthem,fallinggraduallylower,slowlyrollingtowardsthedistantroofswhenoncetheyhadpassedthePontNotre–Dameinfrontofthewideningstream.Innoancientforest,onnomountainroad,beyondnograssyplainwillthereeverbesuchtriumphalsunsetsasbehindthecupolaoftheInstitute.ItisthereoneseesParisretiringtorestinallherglory.Ateachoftheirwalkstheaspectoftheconflagrationchanged;freshfurnacesaddedtheirglowtothecrownofflames.Oneevening,whenashowerhadsurprisedthem,thesun,showingbehindthedownpour,litupthewholeraincloud,andupontheirheadstherefellasprayofglowingwater,irisatedwithpinkandazure.Onthedayswhentheskywasclear,however,thesun,likeafieryball,descendedmajesticallyinanunruffledsapphirelake;foramomenttheblackcupolaoftheInstituteseemedtocutawaypartofitandmakeitlooklikethewaningmoon;thentheglobeassumedaviolettingeandatlastbecamesubmergedinthelake,whichhadturnedblood–red.Already,inFebruary,theplanetdescribedawidercurve,andfellstraightintotheSeine,whichseemedtoseetheonthehorizonasatthecontactofred–hotiron.However,thegranderscenes,thevastfairypicturesofspaceonlyblazedoncloudyevenings.Then,accordingtothewhimofthewind,therewereseasofsulphursplashingagainstcoralreefs;therewerepalacesandtowers,marvelsofarchitecture,piledupononeanother,burningandcrumbling,andthrowingtorrentsoflavafromtheirmanygaps;orelsetheorbwhichhaddisappeared,hiddenbyaveilofclouds,suddenlytranspiercedthatveilwithsuchapressoflightthatshaftsofsparksshotforthfromonehorizontotheother,showingasplainlyasavolleyofgoldenarrows.Andthenthetwilightfell,andtheysaidgood–byetoeachother,whiletheireyeswerestillfullofthefinaldazzlement.TheyfeltthattriumphalPariswastheaccompliceofthejoywhichtheycouldnotexhaust,thejoyofeverresumingtogetherthatwalkbesidetheoldstoneparapets.

Oneday,however,therehappenedwhatClaudehadalwayssecretlyfeared.Christinenolongerseemedtobelieveinthepossibilityofmeetinganybodywhoknewher.Infact,wastheresuchaperson?Shewouldalwayspassalonglikethis,remainingaltogetherunknown.He,however,thoughtofhisownfriends,andattimesfeltakindoftremorwhenhefanciedherecognisedinthedistancethebackofsomeacquaintance.Hewastroubledbyafeelingofdelicacy;theideathatsomebodymightstareatthegirl,approachthem,andperhapsbegintojoke,gavehimintolerableworry.Andthatveryevening,as

shewasclosebesidehimonhisarm,andtheywereapproachingthePontdesArts,hefelluponSandozandDubuche,whowerecomingdownthestepsofthebridge.Itwasimpossibletoavoidthem,theywerealmostfacetoface;besides,hisfriendsmusthaveseenhim,fortheysmiled.Claude,verypale,keptadvancing,andhethoughtitalluponseeingDubuchetakeasteptowardshim;butSandozwasalreadyholdingthearchitectback,andleadinghimaway.TheypassedonwithanindifferentairanddisappearedintothecourtyardoftheLouvrewithoutasmuchasturninground.Theyhadbothjustrecognisedtheoriginalofthecrayonsketch,whichthepainterhidawaywithallthejealousyofalover.Christine,whowaschattering,hadnoticednothing.Claude,withhisheartthrobbing,answeredherinmonosyllables,movedtotears,brimmingoverwithgratitudetohisoldchumsfortheirdiscreetbehaviour.

Afewdayslater,however,hehadanothershock.HedidnotexpectChristine,andhadthereforemadeanappointmentwithSandoz.Then,asshehadrunuptospendanhour—itwasoneofthosesurprisesthatdelightedthem—theyhadjustwithdrawnthekey,asusual,whentherecameafamiliarknockwiththefistonthedoor.Claudeatoncerecognisedtherap,andfeltsoupsetatthemishapthatheoverturnedachair.Afterthatitwasimpossibletopretendtobeout.ButChristineturnedsopale,andimploredhimwithsuchawildgesture,thatheremainedrootedtothespot,holdinghisbreath.Theknockscontinued,andavoicecalled,‘Claude,Claude!’Hestillremainedquitestill,debatingwithhimself,however,withashenlipsanddowncasteyes.Deepsilencereigned,andthenfootstepswereheard,makingthestairscreakastheywentdown.Claude’sbreastheavedwithintensesadness;hefeltitburstingwithremorseatthesoundofeachretreatingstep,asifhehaddeniedthefriendshipofhiswholeyouth.

However,oneafternoontherecameanotherknock,andClaudehadonlyjusttimetowhisperdespairingly,‘Thekeyhasbeenleftinthedoor.’

Infact,Christinehadforgottentotakeitout.Shebecamequitescaredanddartedbehindthescreen,withherhandkerchiefoverhermouthtostiflethesoundofherbreathing.

Theknocksbecamelouder,therewasaburstoflaughter,andthepainterhadtoreply,‘Comein.’

HefeltmoreuncomfortablestillwhenhesawJory,whogallantlyusheredinIrmaBecot,whoseacquaintancehehadmadethroughFagerolles,andwhowasflingingheryouthabouttheParisstudios.

‘Sheinsisteduponseeingyourstudio,soIbroughther,’explainedthejournalist.

Thegirl,however,withoutwaiting,wasalreadywalkingaboutandmakingremarks,withperfectfreedomofmanner.‘Oh!howfunnyitishere.Andwhatfunnypainting.Come,there’sagoodfellow,showmeeverything.Iwanttoseeeverything.’

Claude,apprehensivelyanxious,wasafraidthatshemightpushthescreenaside.HepicturedChristinebehindit,andfeltdistractedalreadyatwhatshemighthear.

‘Youknowwhatshehascometoaskofyou?’resumedJorycheerfully.‘What,don’tyouremember?Youpromisedthatshemightposeforsomething.Andshe’lldosoifyoulike.’

‘OfcourseIwill,’saidIrma.

‘Thefactis,’repliedClaude,inanembarrassedtone,‘mypictureherewilltakeupallmytimetilltheSalon.Ihaveafigureinitthatgivesmeadealoftrouble.It’simpossibletoperfectitwiththoseconfoundedmodels.’

Irmahadstationedherselfinfrontofthepicture,andlookedatitwithaknowingair.‘Oh!Isee,’shesaid,‘thatwomaninthegrass,eh?DoyouthinkIcouldbeofanyusetoyou?’

Joryflaredupinamoment,warmlyapprovingtheidea,butClaudewiththegreatestenergyreplied,‘No,nomadamewouldn’tsuit.SheisnotatallwhatIwantforthispicture;notatall.’

Thenhewentonstammeringexcuses.Hewouldbeonlytoopleasedlateron,butjustnowhewasafraidthatanothermodelwouldquitecompletehisconfusionoverthatpicture;andIrmarespondedbyshrugginghershoulders,andlookingathimwithanairofsmilingcontempt.

Jory,however,nowbegantochatabouttheirfriends.WhyhadnotClaudecometoSandoz’sonthepreviousThursday?Oneneversawhimnow.Dubucheassertedallsortsofthingsabouthim.TherehadbeenarowbetweenFagerollesandMahoudeauonthesubjectwhethereveningdresswasathingtobereproducedinsculpture.ThenonthepreviousSundayGagnierehadreturnedhomefromaWagnerconcertwithablackeye.He,Jory,hadnearlyhadaduelattheCafeBaudequinonaccountofoneofhislastarticlesin‘TheDrummer.’Thefactwashewasgivingithottothetwopenny–halfpennypainters,themenwiththeusurpedreputations!ThecampaignagainstthehangingcommitteeoftheSalonwasmakingadeuceofarow;notashredwouldbeleftofthoseguardiansoftheideal,whowantedtopreventnaturefromenteringtheirshow.

Claudelistenedtohimwithimpatientirritation.Hehadtakenuphispaletteandwasshufflingaboutinfrontofhispicture.Theotheroneunderstoodatlast.

‘Youwanttowork,Isee;allright,we’llleaveyou.’

Irma,however,stillstaredatthepainter,withhervaguesmile,astonishedatthestupidityofthissimpleton,whodidnotseemtoappreciateher,andseizeddespiteherselfwithawhimtopleasehim.Hisstudiowasugly,andhehimselfwasn’thandsome;butwhyshouldheputonsuchbugbearairs?Shechaffedhimforamoment,andongoingoffagainofferedtositforhim,emphasisingherofferbywarmlypressinghishand.

‘Wheneveryoulike,’wereherpartingwords.

Theyhadgoneatlast,andClaudewasobligedtopullthescreenaside,forChristine,lookingverywhite,remainedseatedbehindit,asifshelackedthestrengthtorise.Shedidnotsayawordaboutthegirl,butsimplydeclaredthatshehadfeltveryfrightened;and—tremblinglestthereshouldcomeanotherknock—shewantedtogoatonce,carryingawaywithher,asherstartledlookstestified,thedisturbingthoughtofmanythingswhichshedidnotmention.

Infact,foralongtimethatsphereofbrutalart,thatstudiofullofglaringpictures,hadcausedherafeelingofdiscomfort.Woundedinallherfeelings,fullofrepugnance,shecouldnotgetusedtoitall.Shehadgrownupfullofaffectionateadmirationforaverydifferentstyleofart—hermother’sfinewater–colours,thosefansofdreamydelicacy,inwhichlilac–tintedcouplesfloatedaboutinbluishgardens—andshequitefailedto

understandClaude’swork.Evennowsheoftenamusedherselfbypaintingtinygirlishlandscapes,twoorthreesubjectsrepeatedoverandoveragain—alakewitharuin,awater–millbeatingastream,achaletandsomepinetrees,whitewithsnow.Andshefeltsurprisedthatanintelligentyoungfellowshouldpaintinsuchanunreasonablemanner,souglyandsountruthfulbesides.ForshenotonlythoughtClaude’srealismmonstrouslyugly,butconsidereditbeyondeverypermissibletruth.Infact,shethoughtattimesthathemustbemad.

OnedayClaudeabsolutelyinsisteduponseeingasmallsketch–bookwhichshehadbroughtawayfromClermont,andwhichshehadspokenabout.Afterobjectingforalongwhile,shebroughtitwithher,flatteredatheartandfeelingverycurioustoknowwhathewouldsay.Heturnedovertheleaves,smilingallthewhile,andashedidnotspeak,shewasthefirsttoask:

‘Youthinkitverybad,don’tyou?’

‘Notatall,’hereplied.‘It’sinnocent.’

Thereplyhurther,despiteClaude’sindulgenttone,whichaimedatmakingitamiable.

‘Well,youseeIhadsofewlessonsfrommamma.Ilikepaintingtobewelldone,andpleasing.’

Thereuponheburstintofranklaughter.

‘Confessnowthatmypaintingmakesyoufeelill!Ihavenoticedit.Youpurseyourlipsandopenyoureyeswidewithfright.Certainlyitisnotthestyleofpaintingforladies,leastofallforyounggirls.Butyou’llgetusedtoit;it’sonlyaquestionofeducatingyoureyesandyou’llendbyseeingthatwhatIamdoingisveryhonestandhealthy.’

Indeed,Christineslowlybecameusedtoit.But,atfirst,artisticconvictionhadnothingtodowiththechange,especiallyasClaude,withhiscontemptforfemaleopinion,didnottakethetroubletoindoctrinateher.Onthecontrary,inhercompanyheavoidedconversingaboutart,asifhewishedtoretainforhimselfthatpassionofhislife,apartfromthenewpassionwhichwasgraduallytakingpossessionofhim.Still,Christineglidedintothehabitofthething,andbecamefamiliarisedwithit;shebegantofeelinterestedinthoseabominablepictures,onnoticingtheimportantplacetheyheldintheartist’sexistence.Thiswasthefirststageontheroadtoconversion;shefeltgreatlymovedbyhisragefuleagernesstobeupanddoing,thewhole–heartednesswithwhichhedevotedhimselftohiswork.Wasitnotverytouching?Wastherenotsomethingverycreditableinit?Then,onnoticinghisjoyorsuffering,accordingtothesuccessorthefailureoftheday’swork,shebegantoassociateherselfwithhisefforts.Shefeltsaddenedwhenshefoundhimsad,shegrewcheerfulwhenhereceivedhercheerfully;andfromthatmomentherworrywas—hadhedonealotofwork?washesatisfiedwithwhathehaddonesincetheyhadlastseeneachother?Attheendofthesecondmonthshehadbeengainedover;shestationedherselfbeforehispicturestojudgewhethertheywereprogressingornot.Shenolongerfeltafraidofthem.Shestilldidnotapproveparticularlyofthatstyleofpainting,butshebegantorepeattheartisticexpressionswhichshehadheardhimuse;declaredthisbittobe‘vigorousintone,’‘wellbuiltup,’or‘justinthelightitshouldbe.’Heseemedtohersogood–natured,andshewassofondofhim,thatafterfindingexcusesforhimfordaubingthosehorrors,sheendedbydiscoveringqualitiesintheminorderthat

shemightlikethemalittlealso.

Nevertheless,therewasonepicture,thelargeone,theoneintendedfortheSalon,towhichforalongwhileshewasquiteunabletoreconcileherself.ShealreadylookedwithoutdislikeatthestudiesmadeattheBoutinstudioandthesketchesofPlassans,butshewasstillirritatedbythesightofthewomanlyinginthegrass.Itwaslikeapersonalgrudge,theshameofhavingmomentarilythoughtthatshecoulddetectinitalikenessofherself,andsilentembarrassment,too,forthatbigfigurecontinuedtowoundherfeelings,althoughshenowfoundlessandlessofaresemblanceinit.Atfirstshehadprotestedbyavertinghereyes.Nowsheremainedforseveralminuteslookingatitfixedly,inmutecontemplation.Howwasitthatthelikenesstoherselfhaddisappeared?ThemorevigorouslythatClaudestruggledon,neversatisfied,touchingupthesamebitahundredtimesover,themoredidthatlikenesstoherselfgraduallyfadeaway.And,withoutbeingabletoaccountforit,withoutdaringtoadmitasmuchtoherself,she,whomthepaintinghadsogreatlyoffendedwhenshehadfirstseenit,nowfeltagrowingsorrowatnoticingthatnothingofherselfremained.

Indeeditseemedtoherasiftheirfriendshipsufferedfromthisobliteration;shefeltherselffurtherawayfromhimastraitaftertraitvanished.Didn’thecareforherthathethusallowedhertobeeffacedfromhiswork?Andwhowasthenewwoman,whosewastheunknownindistinctfacethatappearedfrombeneathhers?

Claude,indespairathavingspoiltthefigure’shead,didnotknowexactlyhowtoaskherforafewhours’sitting.Shewouldmerelyhavehadtositdown,andhewouldonlyhavetakensomehints.Buthehadpreviouslyseenhersopainedthathefeltafraidofirritatingheragain.Moreover,afterresolvinginhisownmindtoaskherthisfavourinagay,off–handway,hehadbeenatalossforwords,feelingallatonceashamedatthenotion.

Oneafternoonhequiteupsetherbyoneofthoseburstsofangerwhichhefounditimpossibletocontrol,eveninherpresence.Everythinghadgonewrongthatweek;hetalkedofscrapinghiscanvasagain,andhepacedupanddown,besidehimself,andkickingthefurnitureabout.Thenallofasuddenhecaughtherbytheshoulders,andmadehersitdownonthecouch.

‘Ibegofyou,domethisfavour,orit’llkillme,Iswearitwill.’

Shedidnotunderstandhim.

‘What—whatisityouwant?’

Thenassoonasshesawhimtakeuphisbrushes,sheadded,withoutheedingwhatshesaid,‘Ah,yes!Whydidnotyouaskmebefore?’

Andofherownaccordshethrewherselfbackonacushionandslippedherarmunderherneck.Butsurpriseandconfusionathavingyieldedsoquicklymadehergrave,forshedidnotknowthatshewaspreparedforthiskindofthing;indeed,shecouldhaveswornthatshewouldneverservehimasamodelagain.Hercompliancealreadyfilledherwithremorse,asifshewerelendingherselftosomethingwrongbylettinghimimpartherowncountenancetothatbigcreature,lyingrefulgentunderthesun.

However,intwosittings,Claudeworkedintheheadallright.Heexultedwithdelight,andexclaimedthatitwasthebestbitofpaintinghehadeverdone;andhewasright,neverhad

hethrownsuchaplayofreallightoversuchalife–likeface.Happyatseeinghimsopleased,Christinealsobecamegay,goingasfarastoexpressapprovalofherhead,which,thoughnotextremelylikeher,hadawonderfulexpression.Theystoodforalongwhilebeforethepicture,blinkingatit,anddrawingbackasfarasthewall.

‘Andnow,’hesaidatlast,‘I’llfinishheroffwithamodel.Ah!soI’vegotheratlast.’

Inaburstofchildishglee,hetookthegirlroundthewaist,andtheyperformed‘atriumphantwardance,’ashecalledit.Shelaughedveryheartily,fondofrompingasshewas,andnolongerfeelingaughtofherscruplesanddiscomfort.

ButtheverynextweekClaudebecamegloomyagain.HehadchosenZoePiedeferasamodel,butshedidnotsatisfyhim.Christine’sdelicatehead,asheexpressedit,didnotsetwellontheother’sshoulders.He,nevertheless,persisted,scratchedout,begananew,andworkedsohardthathelivedinaconstantstateoffever.TowardsthemiddleofJanuary,seizedwithdespair,heabandonedhispictureandturneditagainstthewall,swearingthathewouldnotfinishit.Butafortnightlater,hebegantoworkatitagainwithanothermodel,andthenfoundhimselfobligedtochangethewholetoneofit.Thusmattersgotstillworse;sohesentforZoeagain;becamealtogetheratsea,andquiteillwithuncertaintyandanguish.Andthepityofitwas,thatthecentralfigurealoneworriedhim,forhewaswellsatisfiedwiththerestofthepainting,thetreesofthebackground,thetwolittlewomenandthegentlemaninthevelvetcoat,allfinishedandvigorous.Februarywasdrawingtoaclose;hehadonlyafewdayslefttosendhispicturetotheSalon;itwasquiteadisaster.

Oneevening,inChristine’spresence,hebeganswearing,andallatonceacryoffuryescapedhim:‘Afterall,bythethunderofheaven,isitpossibletostickonewoman’sheadonanother’sshoulders?Ioughttochopmyhandoff.’

Fromthedepthsofhisheartasingleideanowrosetohisbrain:toobtainherconsenttoposeforthewholefigure.Ithadslowlysprouted,firstasasimplewish,quicklydiscardedasabsurd;thenhadcomeasilent,constantly–reneweddebatewithhimself;andatlast,underthespurofnecessity,keenanddefinitedesire.Therecollectionofthemorningafterthestorm,whenshehadacceptedhishospitality,hauntedandtorturedhim.Itwasshewhomheneeded;shealonecouldenablehimtorealisehisdream,andhebeheldheragaininallheryouthfulfreshness,beamingandindispensable.Ifhecouldnotgethertopose,hemightaswellgiveuphispicture,fornooneelsewouldeversatisfyhim.Attimes,whileheremainedseatedforhours,distractedinfrontoftheunfinishedcanvas,soutterlypowerlessthathenolongerknewwheretogiveastrokeofthebrush,heformedheroicresolutions.Themomentshecameinhewouldthrowhimselfatherfeet;hewouldtellherofhisdistressinsuchtouchingwordsthatshewouldperhapsconsent.Butassoonashebeheldher,helostallcourage,heavertedhiseyes,lestshemightdecipherhisthoughtsinhisinstinctiveglances.Sucharequestwouldbemadness.Onecouldnotexpectsuchaservicefromafriend;hewouldneverhavetheaudacitytoask.

Nevertheless,oneeveningashewasgettingreadytoaccompanyher,andasshewasputtingonherbonnet,withherarmsuplifted,theyremainedforamomentlookingintoeachother’seyes,hequivering,andshesuddenlybecomingsograve,sopale,thathefelthimselfdetected.Allalongthequaystheyscarcelyspoke;thematterremained

unmentionedbetweenthemwhilethesunsetinthecopperysky.Twiceafterwardsheagainreadinherlooksthatshewasawareofhisall–absorbingthought.Infact,sincehehaddreamtaboutit,shehadbegantodothesame,inspiteofherself,herattentionrousedbyhisinvoluntaryallusions.Theyscarcelyaffectedheratfirst,thoughshewasobligedatlasttonoticethem;stillthequestionseemedtohertobebeyondtherangeofpossibility,tobeoneofthoseunavowableideaswhichpeopledonotevenspeakof.Thefearthathewoulddaretoaskherdidnotevenoccurtoher;sheknewhimwellbynow;shecouldhavesilencedhimwithagesture,beforehehadstammeredthefirstwords,andinspiteofhissuddenburstsofanger.Itwassimplemadness.Never,never!

Dayswentby,andbetweenthemthatfixedideagrewinintensity.Themomenttheyweretogethertheycouldnothelpthinkingofit.Notawordwasspokenonthesubject,buttheirverysilencewaseloquent;theynolongermadeamovement,nolongerexchangedasmilewithoutstumblinguponthatthought,whichtheyfoundimpossibletoputintowords,thoughitfilledtheirminds.Soonnothingbutthatremainedintheirfraternalintercourse.Andtheperturbationofheartandsenseswhichtheyhadsofaravoidedinthecourseoftheirfamiliarintimacy,cameatlast,undertheinfluenceoftheall–besettingthought.Andthentheanguishwhichtheyleftunmentioned,butwhichtheycouldnothidefromoneanother,rackedandstifledthem,leftthemheavingdistressfullywithpainfulsighs.

TowardsthemiddleofMarch,Christine,atoneofhervisits,foundClaudeseatedbeforehispicture,overcomewithsorrow.Hehadnotevenheardherenter.Heremainedmotionless,withvacant,haggardeyesstaringathisunfinishedwork.InanotherthreedaysthedelayforsendinginexhibitsfortheSalonwouldexpire.

‘Well,’sheinquiredgently,afterstandingforalongtimebehindhim,grief–strickenatseeinghiminsuchdespair.

Hestartedandturnedround.

‘Well,it’sallup.Isha’n’texhibitanythingthisyear.Ah!IwhoreliedsomuchuponthisSalon!’

Bothrelapsedintodespondency—adespondencyandagitationfullofconfusedthoughts.Thensheresumed,thinkingaloudasitwere:

‘Therewouldstillbetime.’

‘Time?Oh!noindeed.Amiraclewouldbeneeded.WhereamItofindamodelsolateintheday?Doyouknow,sincethismorningIhavebeenworrying,andforamomentIthoughtIhadhituponanidea:Yes,itwouldbetogoandfetchthatgirl,thatIrmawhocamewhileyouwerehere.IknowwellenoughthatsheisshortandnotatallsuchasIthoughtof,andsoIshouldperhapshavetochangeeverythingoncemore;butallthesameitmightbepossibletomakeherdo.Decidedly,I’lltryher—’

Hestoppedshort.Theglowingeyeswithwhichhegazedatherclearlysaid:‘Ah!there’syou!ah!itwouldbethehoped–formiracle,andtriumphwouldbecertain,ifyouweretomakethissupremesacrificeforme.Ibeseechyou,Iaskyoudevoutly,asafriend,thedearest,themostbeauteous,themostpure.’

She,erect,lookingverypale,seemedtoheareachofthosewords,thoughallremainedunspoken,andhisardentlybeseechingeyesovercameher.Sheherselfdidnotspeak.She

simplydidasshewasdesired,actingalmostlikeoneinadream.Beneathitalltherelurkedthethoughtthathemustnotaskelsewhere,forshewasnowconsciousofherearlierjealousdisquietudeandwishedtosharehisaffectionswithnone.Yetitwasinsilenceandallchastitythatshestretchedherselfonthecouch,andtookupthepose,withonearmunderherhead,hereyesclosed.

AndClaude?Startled,fullofgratitude,hehadatlastfoundagainthesuddenvisionthathehadsooftenevoked.Buthehimselfdidnotspeak;hebegantopaintinthedeepsolemnsilencethathadfallenuponthemboth.Fortwolonghourshestoodtohisworkwithsuchmanlyenergythathefinishedrightoffasuperbroughingoutofthewholefigure.Neverbeforehadhefeltsuchenthusiasminhisart.Itseemedtohimasifhewereinthepresenceofsomesaint;andattimeshewonderedatthetransfigurationofChristine’sface,whosesomewhatmassivejawsseemedtohaverecededbeneaththegentleplaciditywhichherbrowandcheeksdisplayed.Duringthosetwohoursshedidnotstir,shedidnotspeak,butfromtimetotimesheopenedhercleareyes,fixingthemonsomevague,distantpoint,andremainingthusforamoment,thenclosingthemagain,andrelapsingintothelifelessnessoffinemarble,withthemysteriousfixedsmilerequiredbythepose.

ItwasbyagesturethatClaudeapprizedherhehadfinished.Heturnedaway,andwhentheystoodfacetofaceagain,shereadytodepart,theygazedatoneanother,overcomebyemotionwhichstillpreventedthemfromspeaking.Wasitsadness,then,unconscious,unnameablesadness?Fortheireyesfilledwithtears,asiftheyhadjustspoilttheirlivesanddivedtothedepthsofhumanmisery.Then,movedandgrieved,unabletofindaword,evenofthanks,hekissedherreligiouslyuponthebrow.

VONthe15thMay,aFriday,Claude,whohadreturnedatthreeo’clockinthemorningfromSandoz’s,wasstillasleepatnine,whenMadameJosephbroughthimupalargebouquetofwhitelilacwhichacommissionairehadjustleftdownstairs.Heunderstoodatonce.Christinehadwishedtobebeforehandincelebratingthesuccessofhispainting.Forthiswasagreatdayforhim,theopeningdayofthe‘SalonoftheRejected,’whichwasfirstinstitutedthatyear,[9]andatwhichhispicture—refusedbythehangingcommitteeoftheofficialSalon—wastobeexhibited.

ThatdelicateattentiononChristine’spart,thatfreshandfragrantlilac,affectedhimgreatly,asifpresagingahappyday.Stillinhisnightshirt,withhisfeetbare,heplacedtheflowersinhiswater–jugonthetable.Then,withhiseyesstillswollenwithsleep,almostbewildered,hedressed,scoldinghimselfthewhileforhavingsleptsolong.OnthepreviousnighthehadpromisedDubucheandSandoztocallforthematthelatter’splaceateighto’clock,inorderthattheymightallthreegotogethertothePalaisdel’Industrie,wheretheywouldfindtherestoftheband.Andhewasalreadyanhourbehindtime.

Then,asluckwouldhaveit,hecouldnotlayhishandsuponanythinginhisstudio,whichhadbeenturnedtopsy–turvysincethedespatchofthebigpicture.Formorethanfiveminuteshehuntedonhiskneesforhisshoes,amongaquantityofoldchases.Someparticlesofgoldleafflewabout,for,notknowingwheretogetthemoneyforaproperframe,hehademployedajoineroftheneighbourhoodtofitfourstripsofboardtogether,andhadgildedthemhimself,withtheassistanceofhisfriendChristine,who,bytheway,hadprovedaveryunskilfulgilder.Atlast,dressedandshod,andhavinghissoftfelthatbespangledwithyellowsparksofthegold,hewasabouttogo,whenasuperstitiousthoughtbroughthimbacktothenosegay,whichhadremainedaloneonthecentreofthetable.Ifhedidnotkissthelilachewassuretosufferanaffront.Sohekisseditandfeltperfumedbyitsstrongspringtidearoma.

Underthearchway,hegavehiskeyasusualtothedoorkeeper.‘MadameJoseph,’hesaid,‘Ishallnotbehomeallday.’

InlessthantwentyminuteshewasintheRued’Enfer,atSandoz’s.Butthelatter,whomhefearedwouldhavealreadygone,wasequallylateinconsequenceofasuddenindispositionwhichhadcomeuponhismother.Itwasnothingserious.Shehadmerelypassedabadnight,butithadforawhilequiteupsethimwithanxiety.Now,easyinmindagain,SandoztoldClaudethatDubuchehadwrittensayingthattheywerenottowaitforhim,andgivinganappointmentatthePalais.Theythereforestartedoff,andasitwasnearlyeleven,theydecidedtolunchinadesertedlittlecremerieintheRueSt.Honore,whichtheydidveryleisurely,seizedwithlazinessamidstalltheirardentdesiretoseeandknow;andenjoying,asitwere,akindofsweet,tendersadnessfromlingeringawhileandrecallingmemoriesoftheiryouth.

Oneo’clockwasstrikingwhentheycrossedtheChampsElysees.Itwasalovelyday,withalimpidsky,towhichthebreeze,stillsomewhatchilly,seemedtoimpartabrighterazure.

Beneaththesun,ofthehueofripecorn,therowsofchestnuttreesshowednewfoliageofadelicateandseeminglyfreshlyvarnishedgreen;andthefountainswiththeirleapingsheafsofwater,thewell–keptlawns,thedeepvistasofthepathways,andthebroadopenspaces,alllentanairofluxuriousgrandeurtothepanorama.Afewcarriages,veryfewatthatearlyhour,wereascendingtheavenue,whileastreamofbewildered,bustlingpeople,suggestingaswarmofants,plungedintothehugearchwayofthePalaisdel’Industrie.

Whentheywereinside,Claudeshiveredslightlywhilecrossingthegiganticvestibule,whichwasascoldasacellar,withadamppavementwhichresoundedbeneathone’sfeet,liketheflagstonesofachurch.Heglancedrightandleftatthetwomonumentalstairways,andaskedcontemptuously:‘Isay,arewegoingthroughtheirdirtySalon?’

‘Oh!no,dashit!’answeredSandoz.‘Let’scutthroughthegarden.Thewesternstaircaseoverthereleadsto“theRejected.”’

Thentheypasseddisdainfullybetweenthetwolittletablesofthecataloguevendors.Betweenthehugeredvelvetcurtainsandbeyondashadyporchappearedthegarden,roofedinwithglass.Atthattimeofdayitwasalmostdeserted;therewereonlysomepeopleatthebuffetundertheclock,athrongofpeoplelunching.Thecrowdwasinthegalleriesonthefirstfloor,andthewhitestatuesaloneedgedtheyellow–sandedpathwayswhichwithstretchesofcrudecolourintersectedthegreenlawns.Therewasawholenationofmotionlessmarbletheresteepedinthediffuselightfallingfromtheglazedroofonhigh.Lookingsouthwards,somehollandscreensbarredhalfofthenave,whichshowedamberyinthesunlightandwasspeckledatbothendsbythedazzlingblueandcrimsonofstained–glasswindows.Justafewvisitors,tiredalready,occupiedthebrand–newchairsandseats,shinywithfreshpaint;whiletheflightsofsparrows,whodweltabove,amongtheirongirders,swoopeddown,quiteathome,rakingupthesandandtwitteringastheypursuedeachother.

ClaudeandSandozmadeashowofwalkingveryquicklywithoutgivingaglancearoundthem.Astiffclassicalbronzestatue,aMinervabyamemberoftheInstitute,hadexasperatedthemattheverydoor.Butastheyhastenedpastaseeminglyendlesslineofbusts,theyrecognisedBongrand,who,allalone,wasgoingslowlyroundacolossal,overflowing,recumbentfigure,whichhadbeenplacedinthemiddleofthepath.Withhishandsbehindhisback,quiteabsorbed,hebenthiswrinkledfaceeverynowandthenovertheplaster.

‘Hallo,it’syou?’hesaid,astheyheldouttheirhandstohim.‘IwasjustlookingatourfriendMahoudeau’sfigure,whichtheyhaveatleasthadtheintelligencetoadmit,andtoputinagoodposition.’Then,breakingoff:‘Haveyoubeenupstairs?’heasked.

‘No,wehavejustcomein,’saidClaude.

ThereuponBongrandbegantotalkwarmlyabouttheSalonoftheRejected.He,whobelongedtotheInstitute,butwholivedapartfromhiscolleagues,madeverymerryovertheaffair;theeverlastingdiscontentofpainters;thecampaignconductedbypettynewspaperslike‘TheDrummer’;theprotestations,theconstantcomplaintsthathadatlastdisturbedtheEmperor,andtheartisticcoupd’etatcarriedoutbythatsilentdreamer,forthisSalonoftheRejectedwasentirelyhiswork.Thenthegreatpainteralludedtoallthehubbubcausedbytheflingingofsuchapaving–stoneintothatfrog’spond,theofficialart

world.

‘No,’hecontinued,‘youcanhavenoideaoftherageandindignationamongthemembersofthehangingcommittee.AndrememberI’mdistrusted,theygenerallykeepquietwhenI’mthere.Buttheyareallfuriouswiththerealists.Itwastothemthattheysystematicallyclosedthedoorsofthetemple;itisonaccountofthemthattheEmperorhasallowedthepublictorevisetheirverdict;andfinallyitisthey,therealists,whotriumph.Ah!Ihearsomenicethingssaid;Iwouldn’tgiveahighpriceforyourskins,youngsters.’

Helaughedhisbig,joyouslaugh,stretchingouthisarmsthewhileasiftoembracealltheyouthfulnessthathedivinedrisingaroundhim.

‘Yourdisciplesaregrowing,’saidClaude,simply.

ButBongrand,becomingembarrassed,silencedhimwithawaveofhishand.Hehimselfhadnotsentanythingforexhibition,andtheprodigiousmassofworkamidstwhichhefoundhimself—thosepictures,thosestatues,allthoseproofsofcreativeeffort—filledhimwithregret.Itwasnotjealousy,fortherelivednotamoreuprightandbettersoul;butasaresultofself–examination,agnawingfearofimpotence,anunavoweddreadhauntedhim.

‘Andat“theRejected,”’askedSandoz;‘howgoesitthere?’

‘Superb;you’llsee.’

ThenturningtowardsClaude,andkeepingboththeyoungman’shandsinhisown,‘You,mygoodfellow,youareatrump.Listen!theysayIamclever:well,I’dgivetenyearsofmylifetohavepaintedthatbighussyofyours.’

Praiselikethat,comingfromsuchlips,movedtheyoungpaintertotears.Victoryhadcomeatlast,then?Hefailedtofindawordofthanks,andabruptlychangedtheconversation,wishingtohidehisemotion.

‘ThatgoodfellowMahoudeau!’hesaid,‘whyhisfigure’scapital!Hehasadeucedfinetemperament,hasn’the?’

SandozandClaudehadbeguntowalkroundtheplasterfigure.Bongrandrepliedwithasmile.

‘Yes,yes;there’stoomuchfulnessandmassivenessinparts.Butjustlookatthearticulations,theyaredelicateandreallypretty.Come,good–bye,Imustleaveyou.I’mgoingtositdownawhile.Mylegsarebendingunderme.’

Claudehadraisedhisheadtolisten.Atremendousuproar,anincessantcrashingthathadnotstruckhimatfirst,careeredthroughtheair;itwaslikethedinofatempestbeatingagainstacliff,therumblingofanuntiringassault,dashingforwardfromendlessspace.

‘Hallow,what’sthat?’hemuttered.

‘That,’saidBongrand,ashewalkedaway,‘that’sthecrowdupstairsinthegalleries.’

Andthetwoyoungfellows,havingcrossedthegarden,thenwentuptotheSalonoftheRejected.

Ithadbeeninstalledinfirst–ratestyle.Theofficiallyreceivedpictureswerenotlodgedmoresumptuously:loftyhangingsofoldtapestryatthedoors;‘theline’setoffwithgreen

baize;seatsofcrimsonvelvet;whitelinenscreensunderthelargeskylightsoftheroof.Andallalongthesuiteofgalleriesthefirstimpressionwasthesame—therewerethesamegiltframes,thesamebrightcoloursonthecanvases.Buttherewasaspecialkindofcheerfulness,asparkleofyouthwhichonedidnotaltogetherrealiseatfirst.Thecrowd,alreadycompact,increasedeveryminute,fortheofficialSalonwasbeingdeserted.Peoplecamestungbycuriosity,impelledbyadesiretojudgethejudges,and,aboveall,fulloftheconvictionthattheyweregoingtoseesomeverydivertingthings.Itwasveryhot;afinedustarosefromtheflooring;andcertainly,towardsfouro’clockpeoplewouldstiflethere.

‘Hangit!’saidSandoz,tryingtoelbowhisway,‘itwillbenoeasyjobtomoveaboutandfindyourpicture.’

Aburstoffraternalfeverishnessmadehimeagertogettoit.Thatdayheonlylivedfortheworkandgloryofhisoldchum.

‘Don’tworry!’exclaimedClaude;‘weshallgettoitallright.Mypicturewon’tflyoff.’

Andheaffectedtobeinnohurry,inspiteofthealmostirresistibledesirethathefelttorun.Heraisedhisheadandlookedaroundhim;andsoon,amidsttheloudvoicesofthecrowdthathadbewilderedhim,hedistinguishedsomerestrainedlaughter,whichwasalmostdrownedbythetrampoffeetandthehubbubofconversation.Beforecertainpicturesthepublicstoodjoking.Thismadehimfeeluneasy,fordespiteallhisrevolutionarybrutalityhewasassensitiveandascredulousasawoman,andalwayslookedforwardtomartyrdom,thoughhewasevergrievedandstupefiedatbeingrepulsedandrailedat.

‘Theyseemgayhere,’hemuttered.

‘Well,there’sgoodreason,’remarkedSandoz.‘Justlookatthoseextravagantjades!’

Atthesamemoment,whilestilllingeringinthefirstgallery,Fagerollesranupagainstthemwithoutseeingthem.Hestarted,beingnodoubtannoyedbythemeeting.However,herecoveredhiscomposureimmediately,andbehavedveryamiably.

‘Hallo!Iwasjustthinkingofyou.Ihavebeenhereforthelasthour.’

‘WherehavetheyputClaude’spicture?’askedSandoz.Fagerolles,whohadjustremainedfortwentyminutesinfrontofthatpicturestudyingitandstudyingtheimpressionwhichitproducedonthepublic,answeredwithoutwincing,‘Idon’tknow;Ihaven’tbeenabletofindit.We’lllookforittogetherifyoulike.’

Andhejoinedthem.Terriblewagashewas,henolongeraffectedlow–bredmannerstothesamedegreeasformerly;healreadybegantodresswell,andalthoughwithhismockingnaturehewasstilldisposedtosnapateverybodyasofold,hepursedhislipsintotheseriousexpressionofafellowwhowantstomakehiswayintheworld.Withanairofconvictionheadded:‘ImustsaythatInowregretnothavingsentanythingthisyear!Ishouldbeherewithalltherestofyou,andhavemyshareofsuccess.Andtherearereallysomeastonishingthings,myboys!thosehorses,forinstance.’

Hepointedtoahugecanvasinfrontofthem,beforewhichthecrowdwasgatheringandlaughing.Itwas,sopeoplesaid,theworkofanerstwhileveterinarysurgeon,andshowed

anumberoflife–sizehorsesinameadow,fantastichorses,blue,violet,andpink,whoseastonishinganatomytranspiercedtheirsides.

‘Isay,don’tyouhumbugus,’exclaimedClaude,suspiciously.

ButFagerollespretendedtobeenthusiastic.‘Whatdoyoumean?Thepicture’sfulloftalent.Thefellowwhopainteditunderstandshorsesdevilishwell.Nodoubthepaintslikeabrute.Butwhat’stheoddsifhe’soriginal,andcontributesadocument?’

AshespokeFagerolles’delicategirlishfaceremainedperfectlygrave,anditwasimpossibletotellwhetherhewasjoking.Therewasbuttheslightestyellowtwinkleofspitefulnessinthedepthsofhisgreyeyes.Andhefinishedwithasarcasticallusion,thedriftofwhichwasasyetpatenttohimalone.‘Ah,well!ifyouletyourselfbeinfluencedbythefoolswholaugh,you’llhaveenoughtodobyandby.’

Thethreefriendshadgoneonagain,onlyadvancing,however,withinfinitedifficultyamidthatseaofsurgingshoulders.Onenteringthesecondgallerytheygaveaglanceroundthewalls,butthepicturetheysoughtwasnotthere.InlieuthereoftheyperceivedIrmaBecotonthearmofGagniere,bothofthempressedagainstahand–rail,hebusyexaminingasmallcanvas,whileshe,delightedatbeinghustledabout,raisedherpinklittlemugandlaughedatthecrowd.

‘Hallo!’saidSandoz,surprised,‘heresheiswithGagnierenow!’

‘Oh,justafancyofhers!’exclaimedFagerollesquietly.‘Shehasaveryswellplacenow.Yes,itwasgivenherbythatyoungidiotofamarquis,whomthepapersarealwaystalkingabout.She’sagirlwho’llmakeherway;I’vealwayssaidso!Butsheseemstoretainaweaknessforpainters,andeverynowandthendropsintotheCafeBaudequintolookupoldfriends!’

Irmahadnowseenthem,andwasmakinggesturesfromafar.Theycouldbutgotoher.WhenGagniere,withhislighthairandlittlebeardlessface,turnedround,lookingmoregrotesquethanover,hedidnotshowtheleastsurpriseatfindingthemthere.

‘It’swonderful,’hemuttered.

‘What’swonderful?’askedFagerolles.

‘Thislittlemasterpiece—andwithalhonestandnaif,andfullofconviction.’

Hepointedtoatinycanvasbeforewhichhehadstoodabsorbed,anabsolutelychildishpicture,suchasanurchinoffourmighthavepainted;alittlecottageattheedgeofalittleroad,withalittletreebesideit,thewholeoutofdrawing,andgirtroundwithblacklines.Notevenacorkscrewimitationofsmokeissuingfromtheroofwasforgotten.

Claudemadeanervousgesture,whileFagerollesrepeatedphlegmatically:

‘Verydelicate,verydelicate.Butyourpicture,Gagniere,whereisit?’

‘Mypicture,itisthere.’

Infact,thepicturehehadsenthappenedtobeverynearthelittlemasterpiece.Itwasalandscapeofapearlygrey,abitoftheSeinebanks,paintedcarefully,prettyintone,thoughsomewhatheavy,andperfectlyponderatedwithoutasignofanyrevolutionarysplash.

‘Tothinkthattheywereidioticenoughtorefusethat!’saidClaude,whohadapproachedwithanairofinterest.Butwhy,Iaskyou,why?’

‘Becauseit’srealistic,’saidFagerolles,insosharpavoicethatonecouldnottellwhetherhewasgibingatthejuryoratthepicture.

Meanwhile,Irma,ofwhomnoonetookanynotice,waslookingfixedlyatClaudewiththeunconscioussmilewhichthesavageloutishnessofthatbigfellowalwaysbroughttoherlips.Tothinkthathehadnotevencaredtoseeheragain.Shefoundhimsomuchalteredsincethelasttimeshehadseenhim,sofunny,andnotatallprepossessing,withhishairstandingonend,andhisfacewanandsallow,asifhehadhadaseverefever.Painedthathedidnotseemtonoticeher,shewantedtoattracthisattention,andtouchedhisarmwithafamiliargesture.

‘Isay,isn’tthatoneofyourfriendsoverthere,lookingforyou?’

ItwasDubuche,whomsheknewfromhavingseenhimononeoccasionattheCafeBaudequin.Hewas,withdifficulty,elbowinghiswaythroughthecrowd,andstaringvaguelyattheseaofheadsaroundhim.Butallatonce,whenClaudewastryingtoattracthisnoticebydintofgesticulations,theotherturnedhisbacktobowverylowtoapartyofthree—thefathershortandfat,withasanguineface;themotherverythin,ofthecolourofwax,anddevouredbyanemia;andthedaughtersophysicallybackwardateighteen,thatsheretainedallthelankscragginessofchildhood.

‘Allright!’mutteredthepainter.‘Therehe’scaughtnow.Whatuglyacquaintancesthebrutehas!Wherecanhehavefishedupsuchhorrors?’

Gagnierequietlyrepliedthatheknewthestrangersbysight.M.Margaillanwasagreatmasonrycontractor,alreadyamillionairefiveorsixtimesover,andwasmakinghisfortuneoutofthegreatpublicworksofParis,runningupwholeboulevardsonhisownaccount.NodoubtDubuchehadbecomeacquaintedwithhimthroughoneofthearchitectsheworkedfor.

However,Sandoz,compassionatingthescragginessofthegirl,whomhekeptwatching,judgedherinonesentence.

‘Ah!thepoorlittleflayedkitten.Onefeelssorryforher.’

‘Letthemalone!’exclaimedClaude,ferociously.‘Theyhaveallthecrimesofthemiddleclassesstampedontheirfaces;theyreekofscrofulaandidiocy.Itservesthemright.Buthallo!ourrunawayfriendismakingoffwiththem.Whatgrovellersarchitectsare!Goodriddance.He’llhavetolookforuswhenhewantsus!’

Dubuche,whohadnotseenhisfriends,hadjustofferedhisarmtothemother,andwasgoingoff,explainingthepictureswithgesturestypicalofexaggeratedpoliteness.

‘Well,let’sproceedthen,’saidFagerolles;and,addressingGagniere,heasked,‘DoyouknowwheretheyhaveputClaude’spicture?’

‘I?no,Iwaslookingforit—Iamgoingwithyou.’

Heaccompaniedthem,forgettingIrmaBecotagainstthe‘line.’ItwasshewhohadwantedtovisittheSalononhisarm,andhewassolittleusedtopromenadingawomanabout,

thathehadconstantlylostherontheway,andwaseachtimestupefiedtofindheragainbesidehim,nolongerknowinghoworwhytheywerethustogether.Sheranafterthem,andtookhisarmoncemoreinordertofollowClaude,whowasalreadypassingintoanothergallerywithFagerollesandSandoz.

ThenthefiveroamedaboutinIndianfile,withtheirnosesintheair,nowseparatedbyasuddencrush,nowreunitedbyanother,andevercarriedalongbythestream.AnabominationofChaine’s,a‘ChristpardoningtheWomantakeninAdultery,’madethempause;itwasagroupofdryfiguresthatlookedasifcutoutofwood,verybonyofbuild,andseeminglypaintedwithmud.Butclosebytheyadmiredaveryfinestudyofawoman,seenfrombehind,withherheadturnedsideways.Thewholeshowwasamixtureofthebestandtheworst,allstylesweremingledtogether,thedrivellersofthehistoricalschoolelbowedtheyounglunaticsofrealism,thepuresimpletonswerelumpedtogetherwiththosewhobraggedabouttheiroriginality.AdeadJezabel,thatseemedtohaverottedinthecellarsoftheSchoolofArts,wasexhibitednearaladyinwhite,theverycuriousconceptionofafuturegreatartist[10];thenahugeshepherdlookingatthesea,aweakproduction,facedalittlepaintingofsomeSpaniardsplayingatrackets,adashoflightofsplendidintensity.Nothingexecrablewaswanting,neithermilitaryscenesfulloflittleleadensoldiers,norwanantiquity,northemiddleages,smeared,asitwere,withbitumen.Butfromamidsttheincoherentensemble,andespeciallyfromthelandscapes,allofwhichwerepaintedinasincere,correctkey,andalsofromtheportraits,mostofwhichwereveryinterestinginrespecttoworkmanship,therecameagoodfreshscentofyouth,braveryandpassion.IftherewerefewerbadpicturesintheofficialSalon,theaveragetherewasassuredlymorecommonplaceandmediocre.Hereonefoundthesmellofbattle,ofcheerfulbattle,givenjauntilyatdaybreak,whenthebuglesounds,andwhenonemarchestomeettheenemywiththecertaintyofbeatinghimbeforesunset.

Claude,whosespiritshadrevivedamidstthatmartialodour,grewanimatedandpugnaciousashelistenedtothelaughterofthepublic.Helookedasdefiant,indeed,asifhehadheardbulletswhizzingpasthim.Sufficientlydiscreetattheentranceofthegalleries,thelaughterbecamemoreboisterous,moreunrestrained,astheyadvanced.Inthethirdroomthewomenceasedconcealingtheirsmilesbehindtheirhandkerchiefs,whilethemenopenlyheldtheirsidesthebettertoeasethemselves.Itwasthecontagioushilarityofpeoplewhohadcometoamusethemselves,andwhoweregrowinggraduallyexcited,burstingoutatameretrifle,divertedasmuchbythegoodthingsasbythebad.FolkslaughedlessbeforeChaine’sChristthanbeforethebackviewofthenudewoman,whoseemedtothemverycomicalindeed.The‘LadyinWhite’alsostupefiedpeopleanddrewthemtogether;folksnudgedeachotherandwentintohystericsalmost;therewasalwaysagrinninggroupinfrontofit.Eachcanvasthushaditsparticularkindofsuccess;peoplehailedeachotherfromadistancetopointoutsomethingfunny,andwitticismsflewfrommouthtomouth;tosuchadegreeindeedthat,asClaudeenteredthefourthgallery,lashedintofurybythetempestoflaughterthatwasragingthereaswell,heallbutslappedthefaceofanoldladywhosechucklesexasperatedhim.

‘Whatidiots!’hesaid,turningtowardshisfriends.‘Onefeelsinclinedtothrowalotofmasterpiecesattheirheads.’

Sandozhadbecomefieryalso,andFagerollescontinuedpraisingthemostdreadfuldaubs,

whichonlytendedtoincreasethelaughter,whileGagniere,atseaamidthehubbub,draggedonthedelightedIrma,whoseskirtssomehowwoundroundthelegsofallthemen.

ButofasuddenJorystoodbeforethem.Hisfairhandsomefaceabsolutelybeamed.Hecuthiswaythroughthecrowd,gesticulated,andexulted,asifoverapersonalvictory.AndthemomentheperceivedClaude,heshouted:

‘Hereyouareatlast!Ihavebeenlookingforyouthishour.Asuccess,oldfellow,oh!asuccess—’

‘Whatsuccess?’

‘Why,thesuccessofyourpicture.Come,Imustshowityou.You’llsee,it’sstunning.’

Claudegrewpale.Agreatjoychokedhim,whilehepretendedtoreceivethenewswithcomposure.Bongrand’swordscamebacktohim.Hebegantobelievethathepossessedgenius.

‘Hallo,howareyou?’continuedJory,shakinghandswiththeothers.

And,withoutmoreado,he,FagerollesandGagnieresurroundedIrma,whosmiledontheminagood–naturedway.

‘Perhapsyou’lltelluswherethepictureis,’saidSandoz,impatiently.‘Takeustoit.’

Joryassumedthelead,followedbytheband.Theyhadtofighttheirwayintothelastgallery.ButClaude,whobroughtuptherear,stillheardthelaughterthatroseontheair,aswellingclamour,therollofatidenearitsfull.Andashefinallyenteredtheroom,hebeheldavast,swarming,closelypackedcrowdpressingeagerlyinfrontofhispicture.Allthelaughterarose,spread,andendedthere.Anditwashispicturethatwasbeinglaughedat.

‘Eh!’repeatedJory,triumphantly,‘there’sasuccessforyou.’

Gagniere,intimidated,asashamedasifhehimselfhadbeenslapped,muttered:‘Toomuchofasuccess—Ishouldprefersomethingdifferent.’

‘Whatafoolyouare,’repliedJory,inaburstofexaltedconviction.‘That’swhatIcallsuccess.Doesitmatteracurseiftheylaugh?Wehavemadeourmark;to–morroweverypaperwilltalkaboutus.’

‘Theidiots,’wasallthatSandozcouldgasp,chokingwithgrief.

Fagerolles,disinterestedanddignifiedlikeafamilyfriendfollowingafuneralprocession,saidnothing.Irmaaloneremainedgay,thinkingitallveryfunny.And,withacaressinggesture,sheleantagainsttheshoulderofthederidedpainter,andwhisperedsoftlyinhisear:‘Don’tfret,myboy.It’sallhumbug,bemerryallthesame.’

ButClaudedidnotstir.Anicychillhadcomeoverhim.Foramomenthishearthadalmostceasedtobeat,socruelhadbeenthedisappointmentAndwithhiseyesenlarged,attractedandfixedbyaresistlessforce,helookedathispicture.Hewassurprised,andscarcelyrecognisedit;itcertainlywasnotsuchasithadseemedtobeinhisstudio.Ithadgrownyellowbeneaththelividlightofthelinenscreens;itseemed,moreover,tohavebecomesmaller;coarserandmorelabouredalso;andwhetheritwastheeffectofthelight

inwhichitnowhung,orthecontrastoftheworksbesideit,atalleventshenowatthefirstglancesawallitsdefects,afterhavingremainedblindtothem,asitwere,formonths.Withafewstrokesofthebrushhe,inthought,alteredthewholeofit,deepenedthedistances,setabadlydrawnlimbright,andmodifiedatone.Decidedly,thegentlemaninthevelveteenjacketwasworthnothingatall,hewasaltogetherpastyandbadlyseated;theonlyreallygoodbitofworkabouthimwashishand.Inthebackgroundthetwolittlewrestlers—thefairandthedarkone—hadremainedtoosketchy,andlackedsubstance;theywereamusingonlytoanartist’seye.Buthewaspleasedwiththetrees,withthesunnyglade;andthenudewoman—thewomanlyingonthegrassappearedtohimsuperiortohisownpowers,asifsomeoneelsehadpaintedher,andasifhehadneveryetbeheldherinsuchresplendencyoflife.

HeturnedtoSandoz,andsaidsimply:

‘Theydorighttolaugh;it’sincomplete.Nevermind,thewomanisallright!Bongrandwasnothoaxingme.’

Hisfriendwishedtotakehimaway,buthebecameobstinate,anddrewnearerinstead.Nowthathehadjudgedhiswork,helistenedandlookedatthecrowd.Theexplosioncontinued—culminatedinanascendingscaleofmadlaughter.Nosoonerhadvisitorscrossedthethresholdthanhesawtheirjawspart,theireyesgrowsmall,theirentirefacesexpand;andheheardthetempestuouspuffingofthefatmen,therustygratingjeersoftheleanones,amidstalltheshrill,flute–likelaughterofthewomen.Oppositehim,againstthehand–rails,someyoungfellowswentintocontortions,asifsomebodyhadbeenticklingthem.Oneladyhadflungherselfonaseat,stiflingandtryingtoregainbreathwithherhandkerchiefoverhermouth.Rumoursofthispicture,whichwassovery,veryfunny,musthavebeenspreading,fortherewasarushfromthefourcornersoftheSalon,bandsofpeoplearrived,jostlingeachother,andalleagernesstosharethefun.‘Whereisit?’‘Overthere.’‘Oh,whatajoke!’Andthewitticismsfellthickerthanelsewhere.Itwasespeciallythesubjectthatcausedmerriment;peoplefailedtounderstandit,thoughtitinsane,comicalenoughtomakeoneillwithlaughter.‘Youseetheladyfeelstoohot,whilethegentlemanhasputonhisvelveteenjacketforfearofcatchingcold.’‘Notatall;sheisalreadyblue;thegentlemanhaspulledheroutofapond,andheisrestingatadistance,holdinghisnose.’‘Itellyouit’sayoungladies’schooloutforaramble.Lookatthetwoplayingatleap–frog.’‘Hallo!washingday;thefleshisblue;thetreesareblue;he’sdippedhispictureintheblueingtub!’

Thosewhodidnotlaughflewintoarage:thatbluishtinge,thatnovelrenderingoflightseemedaninsulttothem.Someoldgentlemenshooktheirsticks.Wasarttobeoutragedlikethis?Onegraveindividualwentawayverywroth,sayingtohiswifethathedidnotlikepracticaljokes.Butanother,apunctiliouslittleman,havinglookedinthecatalogueforthetitleofthework,inordertotellhisdaughter,readoutthewords,‘IntheOpenAir,’whereupontherecameaformidablerenewaloftheclamour,hissesandshouts,andwhatnotelsebesides.Thetitlespedabout;itwasrepeated,commentedon.‘IntheOpenAir!ah,yes,theopenair,thenudewomanintheair,everythingintheair,tralalalaire.’Theaffairwasbecomingascandal.Thecrowdstillincreased.People’sfacesgrewredwithcongestioninthegrowingheat.Eachhadthestupidlygapingmouthoftheignoramuswhojudgespainting,andbetweenthemtheyindulgedinalltheasinineideas,allthe

preposterousreflections,allthestupidspitefuljeersthatthesightofanoriginalworkcanpossiblyelicitfrombourgeoisimbecility.

Atthatmoment,asalastblow,ClaudebeheldDubuchereappear,draggingtheMargaillansalong.Assoonashecameinfrontofthepicture,thearchitect,illatease,overtakenbycowardlyshame,wishedtoquickenhispaceandleadhispartyfurtheron,pretendingthathesawneitherthecanvasnorhisfriends.Butthecontractorhadalreadydrawnhimselfuponhisshort,squatlegs,andwasstaringatthepicture,andaskingaloudinhisthickhoarsevoice:

‘Isay,who’stheblockheadthatpaintedthis?’

Thatgood–naturedbluster,thatcryofamillionaireparvenuresumingtheaverageopinionoftheassembly,increasedthegeneralmerriment;andhe,flatteredbyhissuccess,andtickledbythestrangestyleofthepainting,startedlaughinginhisturn,sosonorouslythathecouldbeheardabovealltheothers.Thiswasthehallelujah,afinaloutburstofthegreatorganofopinion.

‘Takemydaughteraway,’whisperedpale–facedMadameMargaillaninDubuche’sear.

HesprangforwardandfreedRegine,whohadloweredhereyelids,fromthecrowd;displayingindoingsoasmuchmuscularenergyasifithadbeenaquestionofsavingthepoorcreaturefromimminentdeath.ThenhavingtakenleaveoftheMargaillansatthedoor,withadealofhandshakingandbows,hecametowardshisfriends,andsaidstraightwaytoSandoz,Fagerolles,andGagniere:

‘Whatwouldyouhave?Itisn’tmyfault—Iwarnedhimthatthepublicwouldnotunderstandhim.It’simproper;yes,youmaysaywhatyoulike,it’simproper.’

‘TheyhissedDelacroix,’brokeinSandoz,whitewithrage,andclenchinghisfists.‘TheyhissedCourbet.Oh,theraceofenemies!Oh,thebornidiots!’

Gagniere,whonowsharedthisartisticvindictiveness,grewangryattherecollectionofhisSundaybattlesatthePasdeloupConcertsinfavourofrealmusic.

‘AndtheyhissWagnertoo;theyarethesamecrew.Irecognisethem.Youseethatfatfellowoverthere—’

Joryhadtoholdhimback.Thejournalistforhispartwouldratherhaveurgedonthecrowd.Hekeptonrepeatingthatitwasfamous,thattherewasahundredthousandfrancs’worthofadvertisementsinit.AndIrma,lefttoherowndevicesoncemore,wentuptotwoofherfriends,youngBoursemenwhowereamongthemostpersistentscoffers,butwhomshebegantoindoctrinate,forcingthem,asitwere,intoadmiration,byrappingthemontheknuckles.

Fagerolles,however,hadnotopenedhislips.Hekeptonexaminingthepicture,andglancingatthecrowd.WithhisParisianinstinctandtheelasticconscienceofaskilfulfellow,heatoncefathomedthemisunderstanding.Hewasalreadyvaguelyconsciousofwhatwaswantedforthatstyleofpaintingtomaketheconquestofeverybody—alittletrickeryperhaps,someattenuations,adifferentchoiceofsubject,amildermethodofexecution.Inthemain,theinfluencethatClaudehadalwayshadoverhimpersistedinmakingitselffelt;heremainedimbuedwithit;ithadsetitsstampuponhimforever.Only

heconsideredClaudetobeanarch–idiottohaveexhibitedsuchathingasthat.Wasn’titstupidtobelieveintheintelligenceofthepublic?Whatwasthemeaningofthatnudewomanbesidethatgentlemanwhowasfullydressed?Andwhatdidthosetwolittlewrestlersinthebackgroundmean?Yetthepictureshowedmanyofthequalitiesofamaster.Therewasn’tanotherbitofpaintinglikeitintheSalon!Andhefeltagreatcontemptforthatartist,soadmirablyendowed,whothroughlackoftactmadeallParisroarasifhehadbeentheworstofdaubers.

Thiscontemptbecamesostrongthathewasunabletohideit.Inamomentofirresistiblefranknessheexclaimed:

‘Lookhere,mydearfellow,it’syourownfault,youaretoostupid.’

Claude,turninghiseyesfromthecrowd,lookedathiminsilence.Hehadnotwinced,hehadonlyturnedpaleamidstthelaughter,andifhislipsquivereditwasmerelywithaslightnervoustwitching;nobodyknewhim,itwashisworkalonethatwasbeingbuffeted.Thenforamomentheglancedagainathispicture,andslowlyinspectedtheothercanvasesinthegallery.Andamidstthecollapseofhisillusions,thebitteragonyofhispride,abreathofcourage,awhiffofhealthandyouthcametohimfromallthatgaily–bravepaintingwhichrushedwithsuchheadlongpassiontobeatdownclassicalconventionality.Hewasconsoledandinspiritedbyitall;hefeltnoremorsenorcontrition,but,onthecontrary,wasimpelledtofightthepopulartastestillmore.Nodoubttherewassomeclumsinessandsomepuerilityofeffortinhiswork,butontheotherhandwhataprettygeneraltone,whataplayoflighthehadthrownintoit,asilverygreylight,fineanddiffuse,brightenedbyallthedancingsunbeamsoftheopenair.Itwasasifawindowhadbeensuddenlyopenedamidstalltheoldbituminouscookeryofart,amidstallthestewingsaucesoftradition,andthesuncameinandthewallssmiledunderthatinvasionofspringtide.Thelightnoteofhispicture,thebluishtingethatpeoplehadbeenrailingat,flashedoutamongtheotherpaintingsalso.Wasthisnottheexpecteddawn,anewaurorarisingonart?Heperceivedacriticwhostoppedwithoutlaughing,somecelebratedpainterswholookedsurprisedandgrave,whilePapaMalgras,verydirty,wentfrompicturetopicturewiththepoutofawaryconnoisseur,andfinallystoppedshortinfrontofhiscanvas,motionless,absorbed.ThenClaudeturnedroundtoFagerolles,andsurprisedhimbythistardyreply:

‘Afellowcanonlybeanidiotaccordingtohisownlights,mydearchap,anditlooksasifIamgoingtoremainone.Somuchthebetterforyouifyouareclever!’

Fagerollesatoncepattedhimontheshoulder,likeachumwhohadonlybeeninfun,andClaudeallowedSandoztotakehisarm.Theyledhimoffatlast.ThewholebandlefttheSalonoftheRejected,decidingthattheywouldpassontheirwaythroughthegalleryofarchitecture;foradesignforamuseumbyDubuchehadbeenaccepted,andforsomefewminuteshehadbeenfidgetingandbeggingthemwithsohumblealook,thatitseemeddifficultindeedtodenyhimthissatisfaction.

‘Ah!’saidJory,jocularly,onenteringthegallery,‘whatanice–well!Onecanbreathehere.’

Theyalltookofftheirhatsandwipedtheirforeheads,withafeelingofrelief,asiftheyhadreachedsomebigshadytreesafteralongmarchinfullsunlight.Thegallerywas

empty.Fromtheroof,shadedbyawhitelinenscreen,therefellasoft,even,rathersadlight,whichwasreflectedlikequiescentwaterbythewell–waxed,mirror–likefloor.Onthefourwalls,ofafadedred,hungtheplansanddesignsinlargeandsmallchases,edgedwithpaleblueborders.Alone—absolutelyalone—amidstthisdesertstoodaveryhirsutegentleman,whowaslostinthecontemplationoftheplanofacharityhome.Threeladieswhoappearedbecamefrightenedandfledacrossthegallerywithhastysteps.

Dubuchewasalreadyshowingandexplaininghisworktohiscomrades.Itwasonlyadrawingofamodestlittlemuseumgallery,whichhehadsentinwithambitioushaste,contrarytocustomandagainstthewishesofhismaster,who,nevertheless,hadusedhisinfluencetohaveitaccepted,thinkinghimselfpledgedtodoso.

‘Isyourmuseumintendedfortheaccommodationofthepaintingsofthe“openair”school?’askedFagerolles,verygravely.

Gagnierepretendedtoadmiretheplan,noddinghishead,butthinkingofsomethingelse;whileClaudeandSandozexamineditwithsincereinterest.

‘Notbad,oldboy,’saidtheformer.‘Theornamentationisstillbastardlytraditional;butnevermind;itwilldo.’

Jory,becomingimpatientatlast,cuthimshort.

‘Comealong,let’sgo,eh?I’mcatchingmydeathofcoldhere.’

Thebandresumeditsmarch.TheworstwasthattomakeashortcuttheyhadtogorightthroughtheofficialSalon,andtheyresignedthemselvestodoingso,notwithstandingtheoaththeyhadtakennottosetfootinit,asamatterofprotest.Cuttingtheirwaythroughthecrowd,keepingrigidlyerect,theyfollowedthesuiteofgalleries,castingindignantglancestorightandleft.TherewasnoneofthegayscandaloftheirSalon,fulloffreshtonesandanexaggerationofsunlight,here.Oneaftertheothercamegiltframesfullofshadows;blackpretentiousthings,nudefiguresshowingyellowishinacellar–likelight,thefripperyofso–calledclassicalart,historical,genreandlandscapepainting,allshowingthesameconventionalblackgrease.Theworksreekedofuniformmediocrity,theywerecharacterisedbyamuddydinginessoftone,despitetheirprimness—theprimnessofimpoverished,degenerateblood.Andthefriendsquickenedtheirsteps:theyrantoescapefromthatreignofbitumen,condemningeverythinginonelumpwiththeirsuperbsectarianinjustice,repeatingthattherewasnothingintheplaceworthlookingat—nothing,nothingatall!

Atlasttheyemergedfromthegalleries,andweregoingdownintothegardenwhentheymetMahoudeauandChaine.TheformerthrewhimselfintoClaude’sarms.

‘Ah,mydearfellow,yourpicture;whatartistictemperamentitshows!’

Thepainteratoncebegantopraisethe‘VintagingGirl.’

‘Andyou,Isay,youhavethrownanicebiglumpattheirheads!’

ButthesightofChaine,towhomnoonespokeaboutthe‘WomantakeninAdultery,’andwhowentsilentlywanderingaround,awakenedClaude’scompassion.Hethoughttherewassomethingverysadaboutthatexecrablepainting,andthewastedlifeofthatpeasantwhowasavictimofmiddle–classadmiration.Healwaysgavehimthedelightofalittle

praise;sonowheshookhishandcordially,exclaiming:

‘Yourmachine’sverygoodtoo.Ah,myfinefellow,draughtsmanshiphasnoterrorsforyou!’

‘No,indeed,’declaredChaine,whohadgrownpurplewithvanityunderhisblackbushybeard.

HeandMahoudeaujoinedtheband,andthelatteraskedtheotherswhethertheyhadseenChambouvard’s‘Sower.’Itwasmarvellous;theonlypieceofstatuaryworthlookingatintheSalon.Thereupontheyallfollowedhimintothegarden,whichthecrowdwasnowinvading.

‘There,’saidMahoudeau,stoppinginthemiddleofthecentralpath:‘Chambouvardisstandingjustinfrontofhis“Sower.”’

Infact,aportlymanstoodthere,solidlyplantedonhisfatlegs,andadmiringhishandiwork.Withhisheadsunkbetweenhisshoulders,hehadtheheavy,handsomefeaturesofaHinduidol.HewassaidtobethesonofaveterinarysurgeonoftheneighbourhoodofAmiens.Atforty–fivehehadalreadyproducedtwentymasterpieces:statuesallsimplicityandlife,fleshmodernandpalpitating,kneadedbyaworkmanofgenius,withoutanypretensiontorefinement;andallthiswaschanceproduction,forhefurnishedworkasafieldbearsharvest,goodoneday,badthenext,inabsoluteignoranceofwhathecreated.Hecarriedthelackofcriticalacumentosuchadegreethathemadenodistinctionbetweenthemostgloriousoffspringofhishandsandthedetestablygrotesquefigureswhichnowandthenhechancedtoputtogether.Nevertroubledbynervousfeverishness,neverdoubting,alwayssolidandconvinced,hehadtheprideofagod.

‘Wonderful,the“Sower”!’whisperedClaude.‘Whatafigure!andwhatanattitude!’

Fagerolles,whohadnotlookedatthestatue,washighlyamusedbythegreatman,andthestringofyoung,open–moutheddiscipleswhomasusualhedraggedathistail.

‘Justlookatthem,onewouldthinktheyaretakingthesacrament,‘ponmyword—andhehimself,eh?Whatafinebrutishfacehehas!’

Isolated,andquiteathisease,amidstthegeneralcuriosity,Chambouvardstoodtherewondering,withthestupefiedairofamanwhoissurprisedathavingproducedsuchamasterpiece.Heseemedtobeholditforthefirsttime,andwasunabletogetoverhisastonishment.Thenanexpressionofdelightgraduallystoleoverhisbroadface,henoddedhishead,andburstintosoft,irresistiblelaughter,repeatingadozentimes,‘It’scomical,it’sreallycomical!’

Histrainoffollowerswentintoraptures,whilehehimselfcouldfindnothingmoreforcibletoexpresshowmuchheworshippedhimself.Allatoncetherewasaslightstir.Bongrand,whohadbeenwalkingaboutwithhishandsbehindhisback,glancingvaguelyaroundhim,hadjuststumbledonChambouvard,andthepublic,drawingback,whispered,andwatchedthetwocelebratedartistsshakinghands;theoneshortandofasanguinetemperament,theothertallandrestless.Someexpressionsofgood–fellowshipwereoverheard.‘Alwaysfreshmarvels.’‘Ofcourse!Andyou,nothingthisyear?’‘No,nothing;Iamresting,seeking—’‘Come,youjoker!There’snoneedtoseek,thethingcomesbyitself.’‘Good–bye.’‘Good–bye.’AndChambouvard,followedbyhiscourt,wasalready

movingslowlyawayamongthecrowd,withtheglancesofaking,whoenjoyslife,whileBongrand,whohadrecognisedClaudeandhisfriends,approachedthemwithoutstretchedfeverishhands,andcalledattentiontothesculptorwithanervousjerkofthechin,saying,‘There’safellowIenvy!Ah!tobeconfidentofalwaysproducingmasterpieces!’

HecomplimentedMahoudeauonhis‘VintagingGirl’;showedhimselfpaternaltoallofthem,withthatbroad–mindedgood–natureofhis,thefreeandeasymannerofanoldBohemianoftheromanticschool,whohadsettleddownandwasdecorated.Then,turningtoClaude:

‘Well,whatdidItellyou?Didyouseeupstairs?Youhavebecomethechiefofaschool.’

‘Ah!yes,’repliedClaude.‘Theyaregivingitmenicely.Youarethemasterofusall.’

ButBongrandmadehisusualgestureofvaguesufferingandwentoff,saying,‘Holdyourtongue!Iamnotevenmyownmaster.’

Forafewmomentslongerthebandwanderedthroughthegarden.Theyhadgonebacktolookatthe‘VintagingGirl,’whenJorynoticedthatGagnierenolongerhadIrmaBecotonhisarm.Gagnierewasstupefied;wherethedeucecouldhehavelosther?ButwhenFagerolleshadtoldhimthatshehadgoneoffinthecrowdwithtwogentlemen,herecoveredhiscomposure,andfollowedtheothers,lighterofheartnowthathewasrelievedofthatgirlwhohadbewilderedhim.

Peoplenowonlymovedaboutwithdifficulty.Alltheseatsweretakenbystorm;groupsblockedupthepaths,wherethepromenaderspausedeverynowandthen,flowingbackaroundthesuccessfulbitsofbronzeandmarble.Fromthecrowdedbuffettherearosealoudbuzzing,aclatterofsaucersandspoonswhichmingledwiththethroboflifepervadingthevastnave.Thesparrowshadflownuptotheforestofirongirdersagain,andonecouldheartheirsharplittlechirps,thetwitteringwithwhichtheyserenadedthesettingsun,underthewarmpanesoftheglassroof.Theatmosphere,moreover,hadbecomeheavy,therewasadampgreenhouse–likewarmth;theair,stationaryasitwas,hadanodourasofhumus,freshlyturnedover.Andrisingabovethegardenthrong,thedinofthefirst–floorgalleries,thetrampingoffeetontheiriron–girderedflooringstillrolledonwiththeclamourofatempestbeatingagainstacliff.

Claude,whohadakeenperceptionofthatrumblingstorm,endedbyhearingnothingelse;ithadbeenletlooseandwashowlinginhisears.Itwasthemerrimentofthecrowdwhosejeersandlaughterswepthurricane–likepasthispicture.Withawearygestureheexclaimed:

‘Come,whatarewemessingaboutherefor?Isha’n’ttakeanythingattherefreshmentbar,itreeksoftheInstitute.Let’sgoandhaveaglassofbeeroutside,eh?’

Theyallwentout,withsinkinglegsandtiredfaces,expressiveofcontempt.Onceoutside,onfindingthemselvesagainfacetofacewithhealthymotherNatureinherspringtideseason,theybreathednoisilywithanairofdelight.Ithadbarelystruckfouro’clock,theslantingsunsweptalongtheChampsElyseesandeverythingflared:theserriedrowsofcarriages,likethefreshfoliageofthetrees,andthesheaf–likefountainswhichspoutedupandwhirledawayingoldendust.Withasaunteringsteptheywenthesitatinglydownthecentralavenue,andfinallystrandedinalittlecafe,thePavillondelaConcorde,onthe

left,justbeforereachingthePlace.Theplacewassosmallthattheysatdownoutsideitattheedgeofthefootway,despitethechillwhichfellfromavaultofleaves,alreadyfullygrownandgloomy.Butbeyondthefourrowsofchestnut–trees,beyondthebeltofverdantshade,theycouldseethesunlitroadwayofthemainavenuewhereParispassedbeforethemasinanimbus,thecarriageswiththeirwheelsradiatinglikestars,thebigyellowomnibuses,lookingevenmoreprofuselygildedthantriumphalchariots,thehorsemenwhosesteedsseemedtoraisecloudsofsparks,andthefootpassengerswhomthelightenvelopedinsplendour.

Andduringnearlythreehours,withhisbeeruntastedbeforehim,Claudewentontalkingandarguingamidagrowingfever,brokendownashewasinbody,andwithhismindfullofallthepaintinghehadjustseen.ItwastheusualwindingupoftheirvisittotheSalon,thoughthisyeartheyweremoreimpassionedonaccountoftheliberalmeasureoftheEmperor.

‘Well,andwhatofit,ifthepublicdoeslaugh?’criedClaude.‘Wemusteducatethepublic,that’sall.Inrealityit’savictory.Takeawaytwohundredgrotesquecanvases,andourSalonbeatstheirs.Wehavecourageandaudacity—wearethefuture.Yes,yes,you’llseeitlateron;weshallkilltheirSalon.Weshallenteritasconquerors,bydintofproducingmasterpieces.Laugh,laugh,youbigstupidParis—laughuntilyoufallonyourkneesbeforeus!’

Andstoppingshort,hepointedpropheticallytothetriumphalavenue,wheretheluxuryandhappinessofthecitywentrollingbyinthesunlight.HisarmsstretchedouttilltheyembracedeventhePlacedelaConcorde,whichcouldbeseenslantwisefromwheretheysatunderthetrees—thePlacedelaConcorde,withtheplashingwaterofoneofitsfountains,astripofbalustrade,andtwoofitsstatues—Rouen,withthegiganticbosom,andLille,thrustingforwardherhugebarefoot.

‘“Intheopenair”—itamusesthem,eh?’heresumed.‘Allright,sincetheyarebentonit,the“openair”then,theschoolofthe“openair!”Eh!itwasathingstrictlybetweenus,itdidn’texistyesterdaybeyondthecircleofafewpainters.Butnowtheythrowtheworduponthewinds,andtheyfoundtheschool.Oh!I’magreeable.Letitbetheschoolofthe“openair!”’

Joryslappedhisthighs.

‘Didn’tItellyou?Ifeltsureofmakingthembitewiththosearticlesofmine,theidiotsthattheyare.Ah!howwe’llplaguethemnow.’

Mahoudeaualsowassingingvictory,constantlydragginginhis‘VintagingGirl,’thedaringpointsofwhichheexplainedtothesilentChaine,theonlyonewholistenedtohim;whileGagniere,withthesternnessofatimidmanwaxingwrothoverquestionsofpuretheory,spokeofguillotiningtheInstitute;andSandoz,withtheglowingsympathyofahardworker,andDubuche,givingwaytothecontagionofrevolutionaryfriendship,becameexasperated,andstruckthetable,swallowingupPariswitheachdraughtofbeer.Fagerolles,verycalm,retainedhisusualsmile.Hehadaccompaniedthemforthesakeofamusement,forthesingularpleasurewhichhefoundinurginghiscomradesintofarcicalaffairsthatwereboundtoturnoutbadly.Attheverymomentwhenhewaslashingtheirspiritofrevolt,hehimselfformedthefirmresolutiontoworkinfutureforthePrixde

Rome.Thatdayhaddecidedhim;hethoughtitidiotictocompromisehisprospectsanyfurther.

Thesunwasdecliningonthehorizon,therewasnowonlyareturningstreamofcarriages,comingbackfromtheBoisinthepalegoldenshimmerofthesunset.AndtheexodusfromtheSalonmusthavebeennearlyover;alongstringofpedestrianspassedby,gentlemenwholookedlikecritics,eachwithacatalogueunderhisarm.

ButallatonceGagnierebecameenthusiastic:‘Ah!Courajod,therewasonewhohadhisshareininventinglandscapepainting!Haveyouseenhis“PondofGagny”attheLuxembourg?’

‘Amarvel!’exclaimedClaude.‘Itwaspaintedthirtyyearsago,andnothingmoresubstantialhasbeenturnedoutsince.WhyisitleftattheLuxembourg?ItoughttobeintheLouvre.’

‘ButCourajodisn’tdead,’saidFagerolles.

‘What!Courajodisn’tdead!Nooneeverseeshimorspeaksofhimnow.’

TherewasgeneralstupefactionwhenFagerollesassuredthemthatthegreatlandscapepainter,nowseventyyearsofage,livedsomewhereintheneighbourhoodofMontmartre,inalittlehouseamonghisfowls,ducks,anddogs.Soonemightoutliveone’sownglory!Tothinkthatthereweresuchmelancholyinstancesofoldartistsdisappearingbeforetheirdeath!Silencefelluponthemall;theybegantoshiverwhentheyperceivedBongrandpassbyonafriend’sarm,withacongestivefaceandanervousairashewavedhishandtothem;whilealmostimmediatelybehindhim,surroundedbyhisdisciples,cameChambouvard,laughingveryloudly,andtappinghisheelsonthepavementwiththeairofabsolutemasterythatcomesfromconfidenceinimmortality.

‘What!areyougoing?’saidMahoudeautoChaine,whowasrisingfromhischair.

Theothermumbledsomeindistinctwordsinhisbeard,andwentoffafterdistributinghandshakesamongtheparty.

‘Iknow,’saidJorytoMahoudeau.‘Ibelievehehasaweaknessforyourneighbour,theherbalistwoman.Isawhiseyesflashallatonce;itcomesuponhimliketoothache.Lookhowhe’srunningoverthere.’

Thesculptorshruggedhisshouldersamidstthegenerallaughter.

ButClaudedidnothear.HewasnowdiscussingarchitecturewithDubuche.Nodoubt,thatplanofamuseumgallerywhichheexhibitedwasn’tbad;onlytherewasnothingnewinit.Itwasallsomuchpatientmarquetryoftheschoolformulas.Oughtnotalltheartstoadvanceinonelineofbattle?Oughtnottheevolutionthatwastransformingliterature,painting,evenmusicitself,torenovatearchitectureaswell?Ifeverthearchitectureofaperiodwastohaveastyleofitsown,itwasassuredlythearchitectureoftheperiodtheywouldsoonbeentering,anewperiodwhentheywouldfindthegroundfreshlyswept,readyfortherebuildingofeverything.DownwiththeGreektemples!therewasnoreasonwhytheyshouldcontinuetoexistunderoursky,amidoursociety!downwiththeGothiccathedrals,sincefaithinlegendwasdead!downwiththedelicatecolonnades,thelace–likeworkoftheRenaissance—thatrevivaloftheantiquegraftedonmediaevalism—

preciousart–jewellery,nodoubt,butinwhichdemocracycouldnotdwell.Andhedemanded,hecalledwithviolentgesturesforanarchitecturalformulasuitedtodemocracy;suchworkinstoneaswouldexpressitstenets;edificeswhereitwouldreallybeathome;somethingvastandstrong,greatandsimpleatthesametime;thesomethingthatwasalreadybeingindicatedinthenewrailwaystationsandmarkets,whoseironworkdisplayedsuchsolidelegance,butpurifiedandraisedtoastandardofbeauty,proclaimingthegrandeuroftheintellectualconquestsoftheage.

‘Ah!yes,ah!yes,’repeatedDubuche,catchingClaude’senthusiasm;‘that’swhatIwanttoaccomplish,you’llseesomeday.Givemetimetosucceed,andwhenI’mmyownmaster—ah!whenI’mmyownmaster.’

Nightwascomingonapace,andClaudewasgrowingmoreandmoreanimatedandpassionate,displayingafluency,aneloquencewhichhiscomradeshadnotknownhimtopossess.Theyallgrewexcitedinlisteningtohim,andendedbybecomingnoisilygayovertheextraordinarywitticismshelaunchedforth.Hehimself,havingreturnedtothesubjectofhispicture,againdiscusseditwithadealofgaiety,caricaturingthecrowdhehadseenlookingatit,andimitatingtheimbecilelaughter.Alongtheavenue,nowofanashyhue,oneonlysawtheshadowsofinfrequentvehiclesdartby.Theside–walkwasquiteblack;anicychillfellfromthetrees.Nothingbrokethestillnessbutthesoundofsongcomingfromaclumpofverdurebehindthecafe;therewassomerehearsalattheConcertdel’Horloge,foroneheardthesentimentalvoiceofagirltryingalove–song.

‘Ah!howtheyamusedme,theidiots!’exclaimedClaude,inalastburst.‘Doyouknow,Iwouldn’ttakeahundredthousandfrancsformyday’spleasure!’

Thenherelapsedintosilence,thoroughlyexhausted.Nobodyhadanysalivaleft;silencereigned;theyallshiveredintheicygustthatsweptby.Andtheyseparatedinasortofbewilderment,shakinghandsinatiredfashion.Dubuchewasgoingtodineout;Fagerolleshadanappointment;invaindidJory,Mahoudeau,andGagnieretrytodragClaudetoFoucart’s,atwenty–fivesous’restaurant;Sandozwasalreadytakinghimawayonhisarm,feelinganxiousatseeinghimsoexcited.

‘Comealong,Ipromisedmymothertobebackfordinner.You’lltakeabitwithus.Itwillbenice;we’llfinishthedaytogether.’

Theybothwentdownthequay,pasttheTuileries,walkingsidebysideinfraternalfashion.ButatthePontdesSaints–Peresthepainterstoppedshort.

‘What,areyougoingtoleaveme?’exclaimedSandoz.

‘Why,Ithoughtyouweregoingtodinewithme?’

‘No,thanks;I’vetoobadaheadache—I’mgoinghometobed.’

Andheobstinatelyclungtothisexcuse.

‘Allright,oldman,’saidSandozatlast,withasmile.‘Onedoesn’tseemuchofyounowadays.Youliveinmystery.Goon,oldboy,Idon’twanttobeinyourway.’

Clauderestrainedagestureofimpatience;and,lettinghisfriendcrossthebridge,hewenthiswayalongthequaysbyhimself.Hewalkedonwithhisarmshangingbesidehim,withhisfaceturnedtowardstheground,seeingnothing,buttakinglongstrideslikea

somnambulistwhoisguidedbyinstinct.OntheQuaideBourbon,infrontofhisdoor,helookedup,fullofsurpriseonseeingacabwaitingattheedgeofthefootpavement,andbarringhisway.Anditwaswiththesameautomaticalstepthatheenteredthedoorkeeper’sroomtotakehiskey.

‘Ihavegivenittothatlady,’calledMadameJosephfromthebackoftheroom.‘Sheisupstairs.’

‘Whatlady?’heaskedinbewilderment.

‘Thatyoungperson.Come,youknowverywell,theonewhoalwayscomes.’

Hehadnottheremotestideawhomshemeant.Still,inhisutterconfusionofmind,hedecidedtogoupstairs.Thekeywasinthedoor,whichheslowlyopenedandclosedagain.

ForamomentClaudestoodstockstill.Darknesshadinvadedthestudio;avioletdimness,amelancholygloomfellfromthelargewindow,envelopingeverything.Hecouldnolongerplainlydistinguisheitherthefloor,orthefurniture,orthesketches;everythingthatwaslyingaboutseemedtobemeltinginthestagnantwatersofapool.Butontheedgeofthecouchthereloomedadarkfigure,stiffwithwaiting,anxiousanddespairingamidthelastgaspofdaylight.ItwasChristine;herecognisedher.

Sheheldoutherhands,andmurmuredinalow,haltingvoice:

‘Ihavebeenhereforthreehours;yes,forthreehours,allalone,andlistening.Itookacabonleavingthere,andIonlywantedtostayaminute,andgetbackassoonaspossible.ButIshouldhavestayedallnight;Icouldnotgoawaywithoutshakinghandswithyou.’

Shecontinued,andtoldhimofhermaddesiretoseethepicture;herprankofgoingtotheSalon,andhowshehadtumbledintoitamidstthestormoflaughter,amidstthejeersofallthosepeople.Itwasshewhomtheyhadhissedlikethat;itwasonherselfthattheyhadspat.Andseizedwithwildterror,distractedwithgriefandshame,shehadfled,asifshecouldfeelthatlaughterlashingherlikeawhip,untilthebloodflowed.Butshenowforgotaboutherselfinherconcernforhim,upsetbythethoughtofthegriefhemustfeel,forherwomanlysensibilitymagnifiedthebitternessoftherepulse,andshewaseagertoconsole.

‘Oh,friend,don’tgrieve!Iwishedtoseeandtellyouthattheyarejealousofitall,thatIfoundthepictureverynice,andthatIfeelveryproudandhappyathavinghelpedyou—atbeing,ifeversolittle,apartofit.’

Still,motionless,helistenedtoherasshestammeredthosetenderwordsinanardentvoice,andsuddenlyhesankdownatherfeet,lettinghisheadfalluponherknees,andburstingintotears.Allhisexcitementoftheafternoon,allthebraveryhehadshownamidstthejeering,allhisgaietyandviolencenowcollapsed,inafitofsobswhichwellnighchokedhim.Fromthegallerywherethelaughterhadbuffetedhim,hehearditpursuinghimthroughtheChampsElysees,thenalongthebanksoftheSeine,andnowinhisverystudio.Hisstrengthwasutterlyspent;hefeltweakerthanachild;androllinghisheadfromonesidetoanotherherepeatedinastifledvoice:

‘MyGod!howIdosuffer!’

Thenshe,withbothhands,raisedhisfacetoherlipsinatransportofpassion.Shekissedhim,andwithherwarmbreathsheblewtohisveryheartthewords:‘Bequiet,bequiet,I

loveyou!’

Theyadoredeachother;itwasinevitable.Nearthem,onthecentreofthetable,thelilacshehadsenthimthatmorningembalmedthenightair,and,aloneshinywithlingeringlight,thescatteredparticlesofgoldleaf,waftedfromtheframeofthebigpicture,twinkledlikeaswarmingofstars.

[9]Thiswasin1863.—ED.

[10]EdouardManet.—ED.

VITHEverynextmorning,atseveno’clock,Christinewasatthestudio,herfacestillflushedbythefalsehoodwhichshehadtoldMadameVanzadeaboutayoungfriendfromClermontwhomshewastomeetatthestation,andwithwhomsheshouldspendtheday.

Claude,overjoyedbytheideaofspendingawholedaywithher,wantedtotakeherintothecountry,farawayundertheglorioussunlight,soastohaveherentirelytohimself.Shewasdelighted;theyscamperedofflikelunatics,andreachedtheSt.LazareStationjustintimetocatchtheHavretrain.Heknew,beyondMantes,alittlevillagecalledBennecourt,wheretherewasanartists’innwhichhehadattimesinvadedwithsomecomrades;andcarelessastothetwohours’rail,hetookhertolunchthere,justashewouldhavetakenhertoAsnieres.Shemadeverymerryoverthisjourney,towhichthereseemednoend.Somuchthebetterifitweretotakethemtotheendoftheworld!Itseemedtothemasifeveningwouldnevercome.

Atteno’clocktheyalightedatBonnieres;andtheretheytooktheferry—anoldferry–boatthatcreakedandgratedagainstitschain—forBennecourtissituatedontheoppositebankoftheSeine.ItwasasplendidMaymorning,theripplingwaterswerespangledwithgoldinthesunlight,theyoungfoliageshoweddelicatelygreenagainstthecloudlessazure.And,beyondtheisletssituatedatthispointoftheriver,howdelightfulitwastofindthecountryinn,withitslittlegrocerybusinessattached,itslargecommonroomsmellingofsoapsuds,anditsspaciousyardfullofmanure,onwhichtheducksdisportedthemselves.

‘Hallo,Faucheur!wehavecometolunch.Anomelette,somesausages,andsomecheese,eh?’

‘Areyougoingtostaythenight,MonsieurClaude?’

‘No,no;anothertime.Andsomewhitewine;eh?youknowthatpinkywine,thatgratesabitinthethroat.’

ChristinehadalreadyfollowedmotherFaucheurtothebarn–yard,andwhenthelattercamebackwithhereggs,sheaskedClaudewithherartfulpeasant’slaugh:

‘Andsonowyou’remarried?’

‘Well,’repliedthepainterwithouthesitation,‘itlookslikeitsinceI’mwithmywife.’

Thelunchwasexquisite:theomeletteoverdone,thesausagestoogreasy,andthebreadsohardthathehadtocutitintofingersforChristinelestsheshouldhurtherwrist.Theyemptiedtwobottlesofwine,andbeganathird,becomingsogayandnoisythattheyendedbyfeelingbewilderedinthelongroom,wheretheypartookofthemealallalone.She,withhercheeksaflame,declaredthatshewastipsy;ithadneverhappenedtoherbefore,andshethoughtitveryfunny.Oh!sofunny,andsheburstintouncontrollablelaughter.

‘Letusgetabreathofair,’shesaidatlast.

‘Yes,let’stakeastroll.Wemuststartbackatfouro’clock;sowehavethreehoursbeforeus.’

TheywentupthevillageofBennecourt,whoseyellowhousesstragglealongtheriverbankforaboutacoupleofthousandyards.Allthevillagerswereinthefields;theyonlymetthreecows,ledbyalittlegirl.He,withanoutstretchedarm,toldherallaboutthelocality;seemedtoknowwhitherhewasgoing,andwhentheyhadreachedthelasthouse—anoldbuilding,standingonthebankoftheSeine,justoppositetheslopesofJeufosse—turnedroundit,andenteredawoodofoaktrees.Itwasliketheendoftheworld,roofedinwithfoliage,throughwhichthesunalonepenetratedinnarrowtonguesofflame.Andtheretheycouldstrollandtalkandkissinfreedom.

Whenatlastitbecamenecessaryforthemtoretracetheirsteps,theyfoundapeasantstandingattheopendoorwayofthehousebythewood–side.Clauderecognisedthemanandcalledtohim:

‘Hallo,Porrette!Doesthatshantybelongtoyou?’

Atthistheoldfellow,withtearsinhiseyes,relatedthatitdid,andthathistenantshadgoneawaywithoutpayinghim,leavingtheirfurniturebehind.Andheinvitedtheminside.

‘There’snoharminlooking;youmayknowsomebodywhowouldliketotaketheplace.TherearemanyParisianswho’dbegladofit.Threehundredfrancsayear,withthefurniture;it’sfornothing,eh?’

Theyinquisitivelyfollowedhiminside.Itwasaramblingoldplacethatseemedtohavebeencutoutofabarn.Downstairstheyfoundanimmensekitchenandadining–room,inwhichonemighthavegivenadance;upstairsweretworoomsalso,sovastthatoneseemedlostinthem.Asforthefurniture,itconsistedofawalnutbedsteadinoneoftherooms,andofatableandsomehouseholdutensilsinthekitchen.Butinfrontofthehousetheneglectedgardenwasplantedwithmagnificentapricottrees,andovergrownwithlargerose–bushesinfullbloom;whileatthebacktherewasapotatofieldreachingasfarastheoakwood,andsurroundedbyaquick–sethedge.

‘I’dleavethepotatoesastheyare,’saidoldPorrette.

ClaudeandChristinelookedateachotherwithoneofthosesuddencravingsforsolitudeandforgetfulnesscommontolovers.Ah!howsweetitwouldbetoloveoneanotherthereinthedepthsofthatnook,sofarawayfromeverybodyelse!Buttheysmiled.Wassuchathingtobethoughtof?TheyhadbarelytimetocatchthetrainthatwastotakethembacktoParis.Andtheoldpeasant,whowasMadameFaucheur’sfather,accompaniedthemalongtheriverbank,andastheyweresteppingintotheferry–boat,shoutedtothem,afterquiteaninwardstruggle:

‘Youknow,I’llmakeittwohundredandfiftyfrancs—sendmesomepeople.’

OnreachingParis,ClaudeaccompaniedChristinetoMadameVanzade’sdoor.Theyhadgrownverysad.Theyexchangedalonghandshake,silentanddespairing,notdaringtokisseachotherthere.

Alifeoftormentthenbegan.Inthecourseofafortnightshewasonlyabletocallonthreeoccasions;andshearrivedpanting,havingbutafewminutesatherdisposal,foritsohappenedthattheoldladyhadjustthenbecomeveryexacting.Claudequestionedher,feelinguneasyatseeingherlooksopaleandoutofsorts,withhereyesbrightwithfever.Neverhadthatpioushouse,thatvault,withoutairorlight,whereshediedofboredom,

causedhersomuchsuffering.Herfitsofgiddinesshadcomeuponheragain;thewantofexercisemadethebloodthrobinhertemples.Sheownedtohimthatshehadfaintedoneeveninginherroom,asifshehadbeensuddenlystrangledbyaleadenhand.Stillshedidnotsayawordagainstheremployer;onthecontrary,shesoftenedonspeakingofher:thepoorcreature,sooldandsoinfirm,andsokind–hearted,whocalledherdaughter!Shefeltasifshewerecommittingawickedacteachtimethatsheforsookhertohurrytoherlover’s.

Twomoreweekswentby,andthefalsehoodswithwhichChristinehadtobuy,asitwere,eachhouroflibertybecameintolerabletoher.Sheloved,shewouldhavelikedtoproclaimitaloud,andherfeelingsrevoltedathavingtohideherlovelikeacrime,athavingtoliebasely,likeaservantafraidofbeingsentaway.

Atlast,oneeveninginthestudio,atthemomentwhenshewasleaving,shethrewherselfwithadistractedgestureintoClaude’sarms,sobbingwithsufferingandpassion.‘Ah!Icannot,Icannot—keepmewithyou;preventmefromgoingback.’

Hehadcaughtholdofher,andwasalmostsmotheringherwithkisses.

‘Youreallyloveme,then!Oh,mydarling!ButIamsoverypoor,andyouwouldloseeverything.CanIallowyoutoforegoeverythinglikethis?’

Shesobbedmoreviolentlystill;herhaltingwordswerechokedbyhertears.

‘Themoney,eh?whichshemightleaveme?DoyouthinkIcalculate?Ihaveneverthoughtofit,Iswearittoyou!Ah!letherkeepeverythingandletmebefree!Ihavenoties,norelatives;can’tIbeallowedtodoasIlike?’

Then,inalastsobofagony:‘Ah,youareright;it’swrongtodesertthepoorwoman.Ah!Idespisemyself.IwishIhadthestrength.ButIloveyoutoomuch,Isuffertoomuch;surelyyouwon’tletmedie?’

‘Oh!’hecriedinapassionatetransport.‘Letothersdie,therearebutwetwoonearth.’

Itwasallsomuchmadness.ChristineleftMadameVanzadeinthemostbrutalfashion.Shetookhertrunkawaytheverynextmorning.SheandClaudehadatoncerememberedthedesertedoldhouseatBennecourt,thegiantrose–bushes,theimmenserooms.Ah!togoaway,togoawaywithoutthelossofanhour,toliveattheworld’sendinalltheblissoftheirpassion!Sheclappedherhandsforveryjoy.He,stillsmartingfromhisdefeat,attheSalon,andanxioustorecoverfromit,longedforcompleterestinthecountry;yonderhewouldfindthereal‘openair,’hewouldworkawaywithgrassuptohisneckandbringbackmasterpieces.Inacoupleofdayseverythingwasready,thestudiorelinquished,thefewhouseholdchattelsconveyedtotherailwaystation.Besides,theymetwithasliceofluck,forPapaMalgrasgavesomefivehundredfrancsforascoreofsketches,selectedfromamongthewaifsandstraysoftheremoval.Thustheywouldbeabletolivelikeprinces.Claudestillhadhisincomeofathousandfrancsayear;Christine,too,hadsavedsomemoney,besideshavingheroutfitanddresses.Andawaytheywent;itwasperfectflight,friendsavoidedandnotevenwarnedbyletter,Parisdespisedandforsakenamidlaughterexpressiveofrelief.

Junewasdrawingtoaclose,andtherainfellintorrentsduringtheweektheyspentinarrangingtheirnewhome.TheydiscoveredthatoldPorrettehadtakenawayhalfthe

kitchenutensilsbeforesigningtheagreement.Butthatmatterdidnotaffectthem.Theytookadelightindabblingaboutamidsttheshowers;theymadejourneysthreeleagueslong,asfarasVernon,tobuyplatesandsaucepans,whichtheybroughtbackwiththemintriumph.Atlasttheygotshipshape,occupyingoneoftheupstairsrooms,abandoningtheothertothemice,andtransformingthedining–roomintoastudio;and,aboveall,ashappyaschildrenattakingtheirmealsinthekitchenoffadealtable,nearthehearthwherethesoupsanginthepot.Towaituponthemtheyengagedagirlfromthevillage,whocameeverymorningandwenthomeatnight.ShewascalledMelie,shewasanieceoftheFaucheurs,andherstupiditydelightedthem.Infact,onecouldnothavefoundagreateridiotinthewholeregion.

Thesunhavingshownitselfagain,somedelightfuldaysfollowed,themonthsslippingawayamidmonotonousfelicity.Theyneverknewthedate,theywereforevermixingupthedaysoftheweek.Everyday,afterthesecondbreakfast,cameendlessstrolls,longwalksacrossthetablelandplantedwithappletrees,overthegrassycountryroads,alongthebanksoftheSeinethroughthemeadowsasfarasLaRoche–Guyon;andtherewerestillmoredistantexplorations,perfectjourneysontheoppositesideoftheriver,amidthecornfieldsofBonnieresandJeufosse.Apersonwhowasobligedtoleavetheneighbourhoodsoldthemanoldboatforthirtyfrancs,sothattheyalsohadtheriverattheirdisposal,and,likesavages,becameseizedwithapassionforit,livingonitswatersfordaystogether,rowingabout,discoveringnewcountries,andlingeringforhoursunderthewillowsonthebanks,orinlittlecreeks,darkwithshade.Betwixttheeyotsscatteredalongthestreamtherewasashiftingandmysteriouscity,anetworkofpassagesalongwhich,withthelowerbranchesofthetreescaressinglybrushingagainstthem,theysoftlyglided,alone,asitwere,intheworld,withtheringdovesandthekingfishers.Heattimeshadtospringoutuponthesand,withbarelegs,topushofftheskiff.Shebravelypliedtheoars,bentonforcingherwayagainstthestrongestcurrents,andexultinginherstrength.Andintheeveningtheyatecabbagesoupinthekitchen,laughingatMelie’sstupidity,astheyhadlaughedatitthedaybefore;tobeginthemorrowjustinthesamefashion.

Everyevening,however,ChristinesaidtoClaude:

‘Now,mydear,youmustpromisemeonething—thatyou’llsettoworkto–morrow.’

‘Yes,to–morrow;Igiveyoumyword.’

‘Andyouknowifyoudon’t,Ishallreallygetangrythistime.IsitIwhopreventyou?’

‘You!whatanidea.SinceIcameheretowork—dashitall!you’llseeto–morrow.’

Onthemorrowtheystartedoffagainintheskiff;shelookedathimwithanembarrassedsmilewhenshesawthathetookneithercanvasnorcolours.Thenshekissedhim,laughing,proudofherpower,movedbytheconstantsacrificehemadetoher.Andthencamefreshaffectionateremonstrances:‘To–morrow,ah!to–morrowshewouldtiehimtohiseasel!’

However,Claudedidmakesomeattemptsatwork.HebeganastudyoftheslopesofJeufosse,withtheSeineintheforeground;butChristinefollowedhimtotheisletwherehehadinstalledhimself,andsatdownonthegrassclosetohimwithpartedlips,hereyeswatchingthebluesky.Andshelookedsoprettythereamidsttheverdure,inthatsolitude,wherenothingbrokethesilencebuttheripplingofthewater,thateveryminutehe

relinquishedhispalettetonestlebyherside.Onanotheroccasion,hewasaltogethercharmedbyanoldfarmhouse,shadedbysomeantiquatedappletreeswhichhadgrowntothesizeofoaks.Hecamethithertwodaysinsuccession,butonthethirdChristinetookhimtothemarketatBonnierestobuysomehens.Thenextdaywasalsolost;thecanvashaddried;thenhegrewimpatientintryingtoworkatitagain,andfinallyabandoneditaltogether.Throughoutthewarmweatherhethusmadebutapretencetowork—barelyroughingoutlittlebitsofpainting,whichhelaidasideonthefirstpretext,withoutaneffortatperseverance.Hispassionfortoil,thatfeverofformerdaysthathadmadehimriseatdaybreaktobattlewithhisrebelliousart,seemedtohavegone;areactionofindifferenceandlazinesshadsetin,andhevegetateddelightfully,likeonewhoisrecoveringfromsomesevereillness.

ButChristinelivedindeed.Allthelatentpassionofhernatureburstintobeing.Shewasindeedanamorosa,achildofnatureandoflove.

Thustheirdayspassedbyandsolitudedidnotproveirksometothem.Nodesirefordiversion,ofpayingorreceivingvisits,asyetmadethemlookbeyondthemselves.Suchhoursasshedidnotspendnearhim,sheemployedinhouseholdcares,turningthehouseupsidedownwithgreatcleanings,whichMelieexecutedunderhersupervision,andfallingintofitsofrecklessactivity,whichledhertoengageinpersonalcombatswiththefewsaucepansinthekitchen.Thegardenespeciallyoccupiedher;providedwithpruningshears,carelessofthethornswhichlaceratedherhands,shereapedharvestsofrosesfromthegiantrose–bushes;andshegaveherselfathoroughback–acheingatheringtheapricots,whichshesoldfortwohundredfrancstosomeoftheEnglishmenwhoscouredthedistricteveryyear.Shewasveryproudofherbargain,andseriouslytalkedoflivinguponthegardenproduce.Claudecaredlessforgardening;hehadplacedhiscouchinthelargedining–room,transformedintoastudio;andhestretchedhimselfuponit,andthroughtheopenwindowwatchedhersowandplant.Therewasprofoundpeace,thecertaintythatnobodywouldcome,thatnoringatthebellwoulddisturbthematanymomentoftheday.ClaudecarriedthisfearofcomingintocontactwithpeoplesofarastoavoidpassingFaucheur’sinn,forhedreadedlesthemightrunagainstsomepartyofchumsfromParis.Notasoulcame,however,throughoutthelivelongsummer.Andeverynightastheywentupstairs,herepeatedthat,afterall,itwasdeucedlucky.

Therewas,however,asecretsoreinthedepthsofhishappiness.AftertheirflightfromParis,Sandozhadlearnttheiraddress,andhadwrittentoaskwhetherhemightgotoseeClaude,butthelatterhadnotansweredtheletter,andsocoolnesshadfollowed,andtheoldfriendshipseemeddead.Christinewasgrievedatthis,forsherealisedwellenoughthathehadbrokenoffallintercoursewithhiscomradesforhersake.Sheconstantlyrevertedtothesubject;shedidnotwanttoestrangehimfromhisfriends,andindeedsheinsistedthatheshouldinvitethem.But,thoughhepromisedtosetmattersright,hedidnothingofthekind.Itwasallover;whatwastheuseofrakingupthepast?

However,moneyhavingbecomescarcetowardsthelatterdaysofJuly,hewasobligedtogotoParistosellPapaMalgrashalfadozenofhisoldstudies,andChristine,onaccompanyinghimtothestation,madehimsolemnlypromisethathewouldgotoseeSandoz.Intheeveningshewasthereagain,attheBonnieresStation,waitingforhim.

‘Well,didyouseehim?didyouembraceeachother?’

Hebeganwalkingbyhersideinsilentembarrassment.Thenheansweredinahuskyvoice:

‘No;Ihadn’ttime.’

Thereupon,sorelydistressed,withtwobigtearswellingtohereyes,shereplied:

‘Yougrievemeverymuchindeed.’

Then,astheywerewalkingunderthetrees,hekissedher,cryingalso,andbegginghernottomakehimsadderstill.‘Couldpeoplealterlife?Diditnotsufficethattheywerehappytogether?’

Duringtheearliermonthstheyonlyoncemetsomestrangers.ThisoccurredalittleaboveBennecourt,inthedirectionofLaRoche–Guyon.Theywerestrollingalongadeserted,woodedlane,oneofthosedelightfuldinglepathsoftheregion,when,ataturning,theycameuponthreemiddle–classpeopleoutforawalk—father,mother,anddaughter.Itpreciselyhappenedthat,believingthemselvestobequitealone,ClaudeandChristinehadpassedtheirarmsroundeachother’swaists;she,bendingtowardshim,wasofferingherlips;whilehelaughinglyprotrudedhis;andtheirsurprisewassosuddenthattheydidnotchangetheirattitude,but,stillclaspedtogether,advancedatthesameslowpace.Theamazedfamilyremainedtransfixedagainstoneofthesidebanks,thefatherstoutandapoplectic,themotherasthinasaknife–blade,andthedaughter,amereshadow,lookinglikeasickbirdmoulting—allthreeofthemugly,moreover,andbutscantilyprovidedwiththevitiatedbloodoftheirrace.Theylookeddisgracefulamidstthethrobbinglifeofnature,beneaththeglorioussun.Andallatoncethesorrygirl,whowithstupefiedeyesthuswatchedlovepassingby,waspushedoffbyherfather,draggedalongbyhermother,bothbesidethemselves,exasperatedbythesightofthatembrace,andaskingwhethertherewasnolongeranycountrypolice,while,stillwithouthurrying,theloverswentofftriumphantlyintheirglory.

Claude,however,waswonderingandsearchinghismemory.Wherehadhepreviouslyseenthoseheads,sotypicalofbourgeoisdegeneracy,thoseflattened,crabbedfacesreekingofmillionsearnedattheexpenseofthepoor?Itwasassuredlyinsomeimportantcircumstanceofhislife.Andallatonceheremembered;theyweretheMargaillans,themanwasthatbuildingcontractorwhomDubuchehadpromenadedthroughtheSalonoftheRejected,andwhohadlaughedinfrontofhispicturewiththeroaringlaughofafool.Acoupleofhundredstepsfurtheron,asheandChristineemergedfromthelaneandfoundthemselvesinfrontofalargeestate,whereabigwhitebuildingstood,girtwithfinetrees,theylearntfromanoldpeasantwomanthatLaRichaudiere,asitwascalled,hadbelongedtotheMargaillansforthreeyearspast.Theyhadpaidfifteenhundredthousandfrancsforit,andhadjustspentmorethanamillioninimprovements.

‘Thatpartofthecountrywon’tseemuchofusinfuture,’saidClaude,astheyreturnedtoBennecourt.‘Thosemonstersspoilthelandscape.’

Towardstheendofthesummer,animportanteventchangedthecurrentoftheirlives.Christinewasenceinte.Atfirst,bothsheandClaudefeltamazedandworried.Nowforthefirsttimetheyseemedtodreadsometerriblecomplicationsintheirlife.Lateron,however,theygraduallygrewaccustomedtothethoughtofwhatlaybeforethemandmadeallnecessarypreparations.Butthewinterprovedaterriblyinclementone,and

Christinewascompelledtoremainindoors,whilstClaudewentwalkingallaloneoverthefrost–bound,clankingroads.Andhe,findinghimselfinsolitudeduringthesewalks,aftermonthsofconstantcompanionship,wonderedatthewayhislifehadturned,againsthisownwill,asitwere.Hehadneverwishedforhomelifeevenwithher;hadhebeenconsulted,hewouldhaveexpressedhishorrorofit;ithadcomeabout,however,andcouldnotbeundone,for—withoutmentioningthechild—hewasoneofthosewholackthecouragetobreakoff.Thisfatehadevidentlybeeninstoreforhim,hefelt;hehadbeendestinedtosuccumbtothefirstwomanwhodidnotfeelashamedofhim.Thehardgroundresoundedbeneathhiswooden–soledshoes,andtheblastfrozethecurrentofhisreverie,whichlingeredonvaguethoughts,onhisluckofhaving,atanyrate,metwithagoodandhonestgirl,onhowcruellyhewouldhavesufferedhaditbeenotherwise.Andthenhislovecamebacktohim;hehurriedhometotakeChristineinhistremblingarmsasifhehadbeenindangeroflosingher.

Thechild,aboy,wasbornaboutthemiddleofFebruary,andatoncebegantorevolutionisethehome,forChristine,whohadshownherselfsuchanactivehousewife,provedtobeaveryawkwardnurse.Shefailedtobecomemotherly,despiteherkindheartandherdistressatthesightoftheslightestpimple.Shesoongrewweary,gavein,andcalledforMelie,whoonlymademattersworsebyhergapingstupidity.Thefatherhadtocometotherescue,andprovedstillmoreawkwardthanthetwowomen.ThediscomfortwhichneedleworkhadcausedChristineofold,herwantofaptitudeasregardstheusualoccupationsofhersex,revivedamidthecaresthatthebabyrequired.Thechildwasill–kept,andgrewupanyhowinthegarden,orinthelargeroomsleftuntidyinsheerdespair,amidstbrokentoys,uncleanlinessanddestruction.Andwhenmattersbecametoobadaltogether,Christinecouldonlythrowherselfupontheneckofthemansheloved.Shewaspre–eminentlyanamorosaandwouldhavesacrificedhersonforhisfathertwentytimesover.

Itwasatthisperiod,however,thatClauderesumedworkalittle.Thewinterwasdrawingtoaclose;hedidnotknowhowtospendthebrightsunnymornings,sinceChristinecouldnolongergooutbeforemid–dayonaccountofJacques,whomtheyhadnamedthusafterhismaternalgrandfather,thoughtheyneglectedtohavehimchristened.Claudeworkedinthegarden,atfirst,inarandomway:madearoughsketchofthelinesofapricottrees,roughedoutthegiantrose–bushes,composedsomebitsof‘stilllife,’outoffourapples,abottle,andastonewarejar,disposedonatable–napkin.Thiswasonlytopasshistime.Butafterwardshewarmedtohiswork;theideaofpaintingafigureinthefullsunlightendedbyhauntinghim;andfromthatmomenthiswifebecamehisvictim,sheherselfagreeableenough,offeringherself,feelinghappyataffordinghimpleasure,withoutasyetunderstandingwhataterriblerivalshewasgivingherselfinart.Hepaintedherascoreoftimes,dressedinwhite,inred,amidsttheverdure,standing,walking,orrecliningonthegrass,wearingawide–brimmedstrawhat,orbare–headed,underaparasol,thecherry–tintedsilkofwhichsteepedherfeaturesinapinkyglow.Heneverfeltwhollysatisfied;hescratchedoutthecanvasesaftertwoorthreesittings,andatoncebeganthemafresh,obstinatelystickingtothesamesubject.Onlyafewstudies,incomplete,butcharminglyindicatedinavigorousstyle,weresavedfromthepalette–knife,andhungagainstthewallsofthedining–room.

AndafterChristineitbecameJacques’turntopose.Theystrippedhimtotheskin,likea

littleSt.JohntheBaptist,onwarmdays,andstretchedhimonablanket,wherehewastoldnottostir.Butdevilabitcouldtheymakehimkeepstill.Gettingfrisky,inthesunlight,hecrowedandkickedwithhistinypinkfeetintheair,rollingaboutandturningsomersaults.Thefather,afterlaughing,becameangry,andsworeatthetiresomemite,whowouldnotkeepquietforaminute.Whoeverheardoftriflingwithpainting?Thenthemothermadebigeyesatthelittleone,andheldhimwhilethepainterquicklysketchedanarmoraleg.Claudeobstinatelykeptatitforweeks,temptedashefeltbytheprettytonesofthatchildishskin.Itwasnotasafather,butasanartist,thathegloatedovertheboyasthesubjectforamasterpiece,blinkinghiseyesthewhile,anddreamingofsomewonderfulpicturehewouldpaint.Andherenewedtheexperimentagainandagain,watchingtheladfordays,andfeelingfuriouswhenthelittlescampwouldnotgotosleepattimeswhenhe,Claude,mightsowellhavepaintedhim.

Oneday,whenJacqueswassobbing,refusingtokeepstill,Christinegentlyremarked:

‘Mydear,youtirethepoorpet.’

AtthisClaudeburstforth,fullofremorse:

‘Afterall!youareright;I’mafoolwiththispaintingofmine.Childrenarenotintendedforthatsortofthing.’

Thespringandsummerspedbyamidstgreatquietude.Theywentoutlessoften;theyhadalmostgivenuptheboat,whichfinishedrottingagainstthebank,foritwasquiteajobtotakethelittleonewiththemamongtheislets.ButtheyoftenstrolledalongthebanksoftheSeine,without,however,goingfartherafieldthanathousandyardsorso.Claude,tiredoftheeverlastingviewsinthegarden,nowattemptedsomesketchesbytheriver–side,andonsuchdaysChristinewenttofetchhimwiththechild,sittingdowntowatchhimpaint,untiltheyallthreereturnedhomewithflaggingsteps,beneaththeashenduskofwaningdaylight.OneafternoonClaudewassurprisedtoseeChristinebringwithhertheoldalbumwhichshehadusedasayounggirl.Shejokedaboutit,andexplainedthattositbehindhimlikethathadrousedinherawishtoworkherself.Hervoicewasalittleunsteadyasshespoke;thetruthwasthatshefeltalongingtosharehislabour,sincethislabourtookhimawayfromhermoreandmoreeachday.Shedrewandventuredtowashintwoorthreewater–coloursinthecarefulstyleofaschool–girl.Then,discouragedbyhissmiles,feelingthatnocommunityofideaswouldbearrivedatonthatground,sheoncemoreputheralbumaside,makinghimpromisetogivehersomelessonsinpaintingwheneverheshouldhavetime.

Besides,shethoughthismorerecentpicturesverypretty.Afterthatyearofrestintheopencountry,inthefullsunlight,hepaintedwithfreshandclearervision,asitwere,withamoreharmoniousandbrightercolouring.Hehadneverbeforebeenabletotreatreflectionssoskilfully,orpossessedamorecorrectperceptionofmenandthingssteepedindiffuselight.Andhenceforth,wonoverbythatfeastofcolours,shewouldhavedeclareditallcapitalifhewouldonlyhavecondescendedtofinishhisworkalittlemore,andifshehadnotremainednonplussednowandthenbeforeamauvegroundorabluetree,whichupsetallherpreconceivednotionsofcolour.Onedaywhensheventureduponabitofcriticism,preciselyaboutanazure–tintedpoplar,hemadehergotonatureandnoteforherselfthedelicatebluishnessofthefoliage.Itwastrueenough,thetreewas

blue;butinherinmostheartshedidnotsurrender,andcondemnedreality;thereoughtnottobeanybluetreesinnature.

Shenolongerspokebutgravelyofthestudieshanginginthedining–room.Artwasreturningintotheirlives,anditmadehermuse.Whenshesawhimgooffwithhisbag,hisportableeasel,andhissunshade,itoftenhappenedthatsheflungherselfuponhisneck,asking:

‘Youloveme,say?’

‘Howsillyyouare!Whyshouldn’tIloveyou?’

‘Thenkissme,sinceyouloveme,kissmeagreatdeal,agreatdeal.’

Thenaccompanyinghimasfarastheroad,sheadded:

‘Andmindyouwork;youknowthatIhaveneverpreventedyoufromworking.Go,go;Iamverypleasedwhenyouwork.’

AnxietyseemedtoseizeholdofClaude,whentheautumnofthesecondyeartingedtheleavesyellow,andusheredinthecoldweather.Theseasonhappenedtobeabominable;afortnightofpouringrainkepthimidleathome;andthenfogcameateverymoment,hinderinghiswork.Hesatinfrontofthefire,outofsorts;heneverspokeofParis,butthecityroseupoveryonder,onthehorizon,thewintercity,withitsgaslampsflaringalreadyatfiveo’clock,itsgatheringsoffriends,spurringeachotherontoemulation,anditslifeofardentproduction,whicheventhefrostsofDecembercouldnotslacken.Hewenttherethriceinonemonth,onthepretextofseeingMalgras,towhomhehad,again,soldafewsmallpictures.HenolongeravoidedpassinginfrontofFaucheur’sinn;heevenallowedhimselftobewaylaidattimesbyoldPorrette,andtoacceptaglassofwhitewineattheinn,andhisglancescouredtheroomasif,despitetheseason,hehadbeenlookingforsomecomradesofyore,whohadarrivedthere,perchance,thatmorning.Helingeredasifawaitingthem;then,indespairathissolitude,hereturnedhome,stiflingwithallthatwasfermentingwithinhim,illathavingnobodytowhomhemightshoutthethoughtswhichmadehisbrainalmostburst.

However,thewinterwentby,andClaudehadtheconsolationofbeingabletopaintsomelovelysnowscenes.Athirdyearwasbeginning,when,towardsthecloseofMay,anunexpectedmeetingfilledhimwithemotion.Hehadthatmorningclimbeduptotheplateautofindasubject,havingatlastgrowntiredofthebanksoftheSeine;andatthebendofaroadhestoppedshortinamazementonseeingDubuche,inasilkhat,andcarefully–buttonedfrockcoat,comingtowardshim,betweenthedoublerowofelderhedges.

‘What!isityou?’

Thearchitectstammeredfromsheervexation:

‘Yes,Iamgoingtopayavisit.It’sconfoundedlyidioticinthecountry,eh?Butitcan’tbehelped.Therearecertainthingsone’sobligedtodo.Andyoulivenearhere,eh?Iknew—thatistosay,Ididn’t.Ihadbeentoldsomethingaboutit,butIthoughtitwasontheoppositeside,fartherdown.’

Claude,verymuchmovedatseeinghim,helpedhimoutofhisdifficulty.

‘Allright,allright,oldman,thereisnoneedtoapologise.Iamthemostguiltyparty.Ah!it’salongwhilesincewesawoneanother!IfyouknewwhatathumpmyheartgavewhenIsawyournoseappearfrombehindtheleaves!’

Thenhetookhisarmandaccompaniedhim,gigglingwithpleasure,whiletheother,inhisconstantworryabouthisfuture,whichalwaysmadehimtalkabouthimself,atoncebeganspeakingofhisprospects.Hehadjustbecomeafirst–classpupilattheSchool,aftersecuringtheregulation‘honourablementions,’withinfinitetrouble.Buthissuccesslefthimasperplexedasever.Hisparentsnolongersenthimapenny,theywailedabouttheirpovertysomuchthathemighthavetosupporttheminhisturn.HehadgivenuptheideaofcompetingforthePrixdeRome,feelingcertainofbeingbeatenintheeffort,andanxioustoearnhisliving.Andhewaswearyalready;sickatscouringthetown,atearningtwenty–fivesousanhourfromignorantarchitects,whotreatedhimlikeahodman.Whatcourseshouldheadopt?Howwashetoguessattheshortestroute?HemightleavetheSchool;hewouldgetaliftfromhismaster,theinfluentialDequersonniere,wholikedhimforhisdocilityanddiligence;onlywhatadealoftroubleanduncertaintytherewouldstillbebeforehim!AndhebitterlycomplainedoftheGovernmentschools,whereoneslavedawayforyears,andwhichdidnotevenprovideapositionforallthosewhomtheycastuponthepavement.

Suddenlyhestoppedinthemiddleofthepath.Theelderhedgeswereleadingtoanopenplain,andLaRichaudiereappearedamiditsloftytrees.

‘Holdhard!ofcourse,’exclaimedClaude,‘Ihadn’tthoughtaboutit—you’regoingtothatshanty.Oh!thebaboons;there’salotofuglymugs,ifyoulike!’

Dubuche,lookingvexedatthisoutburstofartisticfeeling,protestedstiffly.‘Allthesame,PapaMargaillan,idiotasheseemstoyou,isafirst–ratemanofbusiness.Youshouldseehiminhisbuilding–yards,amongthehousesherunsup,asactiveastheveryfiend,showingmarvellousgoodmanagement,andawonderfulscentastotherightstreetstobuildandwhatmaterialstobuy!Besides,onedoesnotearnmillionswithoutbecomingagentleman.Andthen,too,itwouldbeverysillyofmenottobepolitetoamanwhocanbeusefultome.’

Whiletalking,hebarredthenarrowpath,preventinghisfriendfromadvancingfurther—nodoubtfromafearofbeingcompromisedbybeingseeninhiscompany,andinordertomakehimunderstandthattheyoughttoseparatethere.

ClaudewasonthepointofinquiringabouttheircomradesinParis,buthekeptsilent.NotevenawordwassaidrespectingChristine,andhewasreluctantlydecidingtoquitDubuche,holdingouthishandtotakeleave,when,inspiteofhimself,thisquestionfellfromhisquiveringlips:

‘AndisSandozallright?’

‘Yes,he’sprettywell.Iseldomseehim.Hespoketomeaboutyoulastmonth.Heisstillgrievedatyourhavingshownusthedoor.’

‘ButIdidn’tshowyouthedoor,’exclaimedClaude,besidehimself.‘Comeandseeme,Ibegofyou.Ishallbesoglad!’

‘Allright,then,we’llcome.I’lltellhimtocome,Igiveyoumyword—good–bye,old

man,good–bye;I’minahurry.’

AndDubuchewentofftowardsLaRichaudiere,whilstClaudewatchedhisfiguredwindleashecrossedthecultivatedplain,untilnothingremainedbuttheshinysilkofhishatandtheblackspotofhiscoat.Theyoungmanreturnedhomeslowly,hisheartburstingwithnamelesssadness.However,hesaidnothingaboutthismeetingtoChristine.

AweeklatershehadgonetoFaucheur’stobuyapoundofvermicelli,andwaslingeringonherwayback,gossipingwithaneighbour,withherchildonherarm,whenagentlemanwhoalightedfromtheferry–boatapproachedandaskedher:

‘DoesnotMonsieurClaudeLantierlivenearhere?’

Shewastakenaback,andsimplyanswered:

‘Yes,monsieur;ifyou’llkindlyfollowme—’

Theywalkedonsidebysideforaboutahundredyards.Thestranger,whoseemedtoknowher,hadglancedatherwithagood–naturedsmile;butasshehurriedon,tryingtohideherembarrassmentbylookingverygrave,heremainedsilent.Sheopenedthedoorandshowedthevisitorintothestudio,exclaiming:

‘Claude,hereissomebodyforyou.’

Thenaloudcryrangout;thetwomenwerealreadyineachother’sarms.

‘Oh,mygoodoldPierre!howkindofyoutocome!AndDubuche?’

‘Hewaspreventedatthelastmomentbysomebusiness,andhesentmeatelegramtogowithouthim.’

‘Allright,Ihalfexpectedit;butyouarehere.Bythethunderofheaven,Iamglad!’

And,turningtowardsChristine,whowassmiling,sharingtheirdelight:

‘It’strue,Ididn’ttellyou.ButtheotherdayImetDubuche,whowasgoingupyonder,totheplacewherethosemonsterslive—’

Buthestoppedshortagain,andthenwithawildgestureshouted:

‘I’mlosingmywits,uponmyword.Youhaveneverspokentoeachother,andIleaveyoutherelikethat.Mydear,youseethisgentleman?He’smyoldchum,PierreSandoz,whomIlovelikeabrother.Andyou,myboy;letmeintroducemywife.Andyouhavegottogiveeachotherakiss.’

Christinebegantolaughoutright,andtenderedhercheekheartily.Sandozhadpleasedheratoncewithhisgood–naturedair,hissoundfriendship,thefatherlysympathywithwhichhelookedather.Tearsofemotioncametohereyesashekeptbothherhandsinhis,saying:

‘ItisverygoodofyoutoloveClaude,andyoumustloveeachotheralways,forloveis,afterall,thebestthinginlife.’

Then,bendingtokissthelittleone,whomshehadonherarm,headded:‘Sothere’sonealready!’

WhileChristine,preparinglunch,turnedthehouseup–sidedown,ClauderetainedSandoz

inthestudio.Inafewwordshetoldhimthewholeofthestory,whoshewas,howtheyhadmeteachother,andwhathadledthemtostarthousekeepingtogether,andheseemedtobesurprisedwhenhisfriendaskedhimwhytheydidnotgetmarried.Infaith,why?Becausetheyhadneverevenspokenaboutit,becausetheywouldcertainlybeneithermorenorlesshappy;inshortitwasamatterofnoconsequencewhatever.

‘Well,’saidtheother,‘itmakesnodifferencetome;but,ifshewasagoodandhonestgirlwhenshecametoyou,yououghttomarryher.’

‘Why,I’llmarryherwhenevershelikes,oldman.SurelyIdon’tmeantoleaveherinthelurch!’

Sandozthenbegantomarvelatthestudieshangingonthewalls.Ha,thescamphadturnedhistimetogoodaccount!Whataccuracyofcolouring!Whatadashofrealsunlight!AndClaude,wholistenedtohim,delighted,andlaughingproudly,wasjustgoingtoquestionhimaboutthecomradesinParis,aboutwhattheywerealldoing,whenChristinereappeared,exclaiming:‘Makehaste,theeggsareonthetable.’

Theylunchedinthekitchen,andanextraordinarylunchitwas;adishoffriedgudgeonsaftertheboiledeggs;thenthebeeffromthesoupofthenightbefore,arrangedinsaladfashion,withpotatoes,andaredherring.Itwasdelicious;therewasthepungentandappetisingsmelloftheherringwhichMeliehadupsetontheliveembers,andthesongofthecoffee,asitpassed,dropbydrop,intothepotstandingontherange;andwhenthedessertappeared—somestrawberriesjustgathered,andacreamcheesefromaneighbour’sdairy—theygossipedandgossipedwiththeirelbowssquarelysetonthetable.InParis?Well,totellthetruth,thecomradesweredoingnothingveryoriginalinParis.Andyettheywerefightingtheirway,jostlingeachotherinordertogetfirsttothefront.Ofcourse,theabsentonesmissedtheirchance;itwasaswelltobethereifonedidnotwanttobealtogetherforgotten.Butwasnottalentalwaystalent?Wasn’tamanalwayscertaintogetonwithstrengthandwill?Ah!yes,itwasasplendiddreamtoliveinthecountry,toaccumulatemasterpieces,andthen,oneday,tocrushParisbysimplyopeningone’strunks.

Intheevening,whenClaudeaccompaniedSandoztothestation,thelattersaidtohim:

‘Thatremindsme,Iwantedtotellyousomething.IthinkIamgoingtogetmarried.’

Thepainterburstoutlaughing.

‘Ah,youwag,nowIunderstandwhyyougavemealecturethismorning.’

Whilewaitingforthetraintoarrive,theywentonchatting.Sandozexplainedhisideasonmarriage,which,inmiddle–classfashion,heconsideredanindispensableconditionforgoodwork,substantialorderlylabour,amonggreatmodernproducers.Thetheoryofwomanbeingadestructivecreature—onewhokilledanartist,poundedhisheart,andfeduponhisbrain—wasaromanticideaagainstwhichfactsprotested.Besides,asforhimself,heneededanaffectionthatwouldprovetheguardianofhistranquillity,alovinghome,wherehemightshuthimselfup,soastodevotehiswholelifetothehugeworkwhichheeverdreamtof.Andheaddedthateverythingdependeduponaman’schoice—thathebelievedhehadfoundwhathehadbeenlookingfor,anorphan,thedaughterofpettytradespeople,withoutapenny,buthandsomeandintelligent.Forthelastsixmonths,

afterresigninghisclerkship,hehadembracedjournalism,bywhichhegainedalargerincome.HehadjustmovedhismothertoasmallhouseatBatignolles,wherethethreewouldlivetogether—twowomentolovehim,andhestrongenoughtoprovideforthehousehold.

‘Getmarried,oldman,’saidClaude.‘Oneshouldactaccordingtoone’sfeelings.Andgood–bye,forhere’syourtrain.Don’tforgetyourpromisetocomeandseeusagain.’

Sandozreturnedveryoften.Hedroppedinatoddtimeswheneverhisnewspaperworkallowedhim,forhewasstillfree,ashewasnottobemarriedtilltheautumn.Thosewerehappydays,wholeafternoonsofmutualconfidenceswhenalltheirolddeterminationtosecurefamerevived.

Oneday,whileSandozwasalonewithClaudeonanislandoftheSeine,bothofthemlyingtherewiththeireyesfixedonthesky,hetoldthepainterofhisvastambition,confessedhimselfaloud.

‘Journalism,letmetellyou,isonlyabattle–ground.Amanmustlive,andhehastofighttodoso.Then,again,thatwanton,thePress,despitetheunpleasantphasesoftheprofession,isafterallatremendouspower,aresistlessweaponinthehandsofafellowwithconvictions.ButifIamobligedtoavailmyselfofjournalism,Idon’tmeantogrowgreyinit!Oh,dearno!And,besides,I’vefoundwhatIwanted,amachinethat’llcrushonewithwork,somethingI’mgoingtoplungeinto,perhapsnevertocomeoutofit.’

Silencereignedamidthefoliage,motionlessinthedenseheat.Heresumedspeakingmoreslowlyandinjerkyphrases:

‘Tostudymanasheis,notmanthemetaphysicalpuppetbutphysiologicalman,whosenatureisdeterminedbyhissurroundings,andtoshowallhisorganisminfullplay.That’smyidea!Isitnotfarcicalthatsomeshouldconstantlyandexclusivelystudythefunctionsofthebrainonthepretextthatthebrainaloneisthenoblepartofourorganism?Thought,thought,confounditall!thoughtistheproductofthewholebody.Letthemtrytomakeabrainthinkbyitselfalone;seewhatbecomesofthenoblenessofthebrainwhenthestomachisailing!No,no,it’sidiotic;thereisnophilosophynorscienceinit!Wearepositivists,evolutionists,andyetwearetosticktotheliterarylay–figuresofclassictimes,andcontinuedisentanglingthetangledlocksofpurereason!Hewhosayspsychologistsaystraitortotruth.Besides,psychology,physiology,itallsignifiesnothing.Theonehasbecomeblendedwiththeother,andbotharebutonenowadays,themechanismofmanleadingtothesumtotalofhisfunctions.Ah,theformulaisthere,ourmodernrevolutionhasnootherbasis;itmeansthecertaindeathofoldsociety,thebirthofanewone,andnecessarilytheupspringingofanewartinanewsoil.Yes,peoplewillseewhatliteraturewillsproutforthforthecomingcenturyofscienceanddemocracy.’

Hiscryuproseandwaslostintheimmensevaultofheaven.Notabreathstirred;therewasnoughtbutthesilentrippleoftheriverpastthewillows.AndSandozturnedabruptlytowardshiscompanion,andsaidtohim,facetoface:

‘SoIhavefoundwhatIwantedformyself.Oh,itisn’tmuch,alittlecornerofstudyonly,butonethatshouldbesufficientforaman’slife,evenwhenhisambitionisover–vast.Iamgoingtotakeafamily,andIshallstudyitsmembers,onebyone,whencetheycome,whithertheygo,howtheyre–actoneuponanother—inshort,Ishallhavemankindina

smallcompass,thewayinwhichmankindgrowsandbehaves.Ontheotherhand,Ishallsetmymenandwomeninsomegivenperiodofhistory,whichwillprovidemewiththenecessarysurroundingsandcircumstances,—youunderstand,eh?aseriesofbooks,fifteen,twentybooks,episodesthatwillclingtogether,althougheachwillhaveaseparateframework,aseriesofnovelswithwhichIshallbeabletobuildmyselfahouseformyolddays,iftheydon’tcrushme!’

Hefellonhisbackagain,spreadouthisarmsonthegrass,asifhewantedtosinkintotheearth,laughingandjokingallthewhile.

‘Oh,beneficentearth,takemeuntothee,thouwhoartourcommonmother,ouronlysourceoflife!thoutheeternal,theimmortalone,inwhomcirculatesthesouloftheworld,thesapthatspreadsevenintothestones,andmakesthetreesthemselvesourbig,motionlessbrothers!Yes,Iwishtolosemyselfinthee;itisthouthatIfeelbeneathmylimbs,claspingandinflamingme;thoualoneshaltappearinmyworkastheprimaryforce,themeansandtheend,theimmensearkinwhicheverythingbecomesanimatedwiththebreathofeverybeing!’

Thoughbegunasmerepleasantry,withallthebombastoflyricalemphasis,theinvocationterminatedinacryofardentconviction,quiveringwithprofoundpoeticalemotion,andSandoz’seyesgrewmoist;and,tohidehowmuchhefeltmoved,headded,roughly,withasweepinggesturethattookinthewholescenearound:

‘Howidioticitis!asoulforeveryoneofus,whenthereisthatbigsoulthere!’

Claude,whohaddisappearedamidthegrass,hadnotstirred.Afterafreshspellofsilencehesummedupeverything:

‘That’sit,oldboy!Runthemthrough,allofthem.Onlyyou’llgettrounced.’

‘Oh,’saidSandoz,risingupandstretchinghimself,‘mybonesaretoohard.They’llsmashtheirownwrists.Let’sgoback;Idon’twanttomissthetrain.’

Christinehadtakenagreatlikingtohim,seeinghimsorobustanduprightinhisdoings,andshepluckedupcourageatlasttoaskafavourofhim:thatofstandinggodfathertoJacques.True,sheneversetfootinchurchnow,butwhyshouldn’ttheladbetreatedaccordingtocustom?Whatinfluencedheraboveallwastheideaofgivingtheboyaprotectorinthisgodfather,whomshefoundsoseriousandsensible,evenamidsttheexuberanceofhisstrength.Claudeexpressedsurprise,butgavehisconsentwithashrugoftheshoulders.Andthechristeningtookplace;theyfoundagodmother,thedaughterofaneighbour,andtheymadeafeastofit,eatingalobster,whichwasbroughtfromParis.

Thatveryday,astheyweresayinggood–bye,ChristinetookSandozaside,andsaid,inanimploringvoice:

‘Docomeagainsoon,won’tyou?Heisbored.’

Infact,Claudehadfitsofprofoundmelancholy.Heabandonedhiswork,wentoutalone,andprowledinspiteofhimselfaboutFaucheur’sinn,atthespotwheretheferry–boatlandeditspassengers,asifeverexpectingtoseeallPariscomeashorethere.HehadParisonthebrain;hewentthereeverymonthandreturneddesolate,unabletowork.Autumncame,thenwinter,averywetandmuddywinter,andhespentitinastateofmorose

torpidity,bitterevenagainstSandoz,who,havingmarriedinOctober,couldnolongercometoBennecourtsooften.Claudeonlyseemedtowakeupateachoftheother’svisits;derivingaweek’sexcitementfromthem,andneverceasingtocommentfeverishlyaboutthenewsbroughtfromyonder.He,whoformerlyhadhiddenhisregretofParis,nowadaysbewilderedChristinewiththewayinwhichhechattedtoherfrommorntillnightaboutthingsshewasquiteignorantof,andpeopleshehadneverseen.WhenJacquesfellasleep,therewereendlesscommentsbetweentheparentsastheysatbythefireside.Claudegrewpassionate,andChristinehadtogiveheropinionandtopronouncejudgmentonallsortsofmatters.

WasnotGagniereanidiotforstultifyinghisbrainwithmusic,hewhomighthavedevelopedsoconscientiousatalentasalandscapepainter?Itwassaidthathewasnowtakinglessonsonthepianofromayounglady—theidea,athisage!Whatdidshe,Christine,thinkofit?AndJoryhadbeentryingtogetintothegoodgracesofIrmaBecotagain,eversinceshehadsecuredthatlittlehouseintheRuedeMoscou!Christineknewthosetwo;twojadeswhowellwenttogether,weren’tthey?ButthemostcunningofthewholelotwasFagerolles,towhomhe,Claude,wouldtellafewplaintruthsandnomistake,whenhemethim.What!theturn–coathadcompetedforthePrixdeRome,which,ofcourse,hehadmanagedtomiss.Tothinkofit.ThatfellowdidnothingbutjeerattheSchool,andtalkedaboutknockingeverythingdown,yettookpartinofficialcompetitions!Ah,therewasnodoubtbutthattheitchingtosucceed,thewishtopassoverone’scomradesandbehailedbyidiots,impelledsomepeopletoverydirtytricks.SurelyChristinedidnotmeantostickupforhim,eh?Shewasnotsufficientlyaphilistinetodefendhim.AndwhenshehadagreedwitheverythingClaudesaid,healwayscamebackwithnervouslaughtertothesamestory—whichhethoughtexceedinglycomical—thestoryofMahoudeauandChaine,who,betweenthem,hadkilledlittleJabouille,thehusbandofMathilde,thatdreadfulherbalistwoman.Yes,killedthepoorconsumptivefellowwithkindnessoneeveningwhenhehadhadafaintingfit,andwhen,onbeingcalledinbythewoman,theyhadtakentorubbinghimwithsomuchvigourthathehadremaineddeadintheirhands.

AndifChristinefailedtolookamusedatallthis,Clauderoseupandsaid,inachurlishvoice:‘Oh,you;nothingwillmakeyoulaugh—let’sgotobed.’

Hestilladoredher,butshenolongersufficed.Anothertormenthadinvinciblyseizedholdofhim—thepassionforart,thethirstforfame.

Inthespring,Claude,who,withanaffectationofdisdain,hadswornhewouldneveragainexhibit,begantoworryagreatdealabouttheSalon.WheneverhesawSandozhequestionedhimaboutwhatthecomradesweregoingtosend.OntheopeningdayhewenttoParisandcamebackthesameevening,sternandtrembling.TherewasonlyabustbyMahoudeau,saidhe,goodenough,butofnoimportance.AsmalllandscapebyGagniere,admittedamongtheruck,wasalsoofaprettysunnytone.Thentherewasnothingelse,nothingbutFagerolles’picture—anactressinfrontofherlooking–glasspaintingherface.Hehadnotmentioneditatfirst;buthenowspokeofitwithindignantlaughter.WhatatricksterthatFagerolleswas!Nowthathehadmissedhisprizehewasnolongerafraidtoexhibit—hethrewtheSchooloverboard;butyoushouldhaveseenhowskilfullyhemanagedit,whatcompromisesheeffected,paintinginastylewhichapedtheaudacityof

truthwithoutpossessingoneoriginalmerit.Anditwouldbesuretomeetwithsuccess,thebourgeoiswereonlytoofondofbeingtitillatedwhiletheartistpretendedtohustlethem.Ah!itwastimeindeedforatrueartisttoappearinthatmournfuldesertofaSalon,amidalltheknavesandthefools.And,byheavens,whataplacemightbetakenthere!

Christine,wholistenedwhilehegrewangry,endedbyfaltering:

‘Ifyouliked,wemightgobacktoParis.’

‘Whowastalkingofthat?’heshouted.‘Onecanneversayawordtoyoubutyouatoncejumptofalseconclusions.’

Sixweeksafterwardsheheardsomenewsthatoccupiedhismindforaweek.HisfriendDubuchewasgoingtomarryMademoiselleRegineMargaillan,thedaughteroftheownerofLaRichaudiere.Itwasanintricatestory,thedetailsofwhichsurprisedandamusedhimexceedingly.Firstofall,thatcurDubuchehadmanagedtohookamedalforadesignofavillainapark,whichhehadexhibited;thatofitselfwasalreadysufficientlyamusing,asitwassaidthatthedrawinghadbeensetonitslegsbyhismaster,Dequersonniere,whohadquietlyobtainedthismedalforhimfromthejuryoverwhichhepresided.Thenthebestofitwasthatthislong–awaitedrewardhaddecidedthemarriage.Ah!itwouldbenicetraffickingifmedalswerenowawardedtosettleneedypupilsinrichfamilies!OldMargaillan,likeallparvenus,hadsethisheartuponhavingason–in–lawwhocouldhelphim,bybringingauthenticdiplomasandfashionableclothesintothebusiness;andforsometimepasthehadhadhiseyesonthatyoungman,thatpupiloftheSchoolofArts,whosenoteswereexcellent,whowassopersevering,andsohighlyrecommendedbyhismasters.Themedalarousedhisenthusiasm;heatoncegavetheyoungfellowhisdaughterandtookhimasapartner,whowouldsoonincreasehismillionsnowlyingidle,sinceheknewallthatwasneedfulinordertobuildproperly.Besides,bythisarrangementpoorRegine,alwayslow–spiritedandailing,wouldatleasthaveahusbandinperfecthealth.

‘Well,amanmustbefondofmoneytomarrythatwretchedflayedkitten,’repeatedClaude.

AndasChristinecompassionatelytookthegirl’spart,headded:

‘ButIamnotdownuponher.Somuchthebetterifthemarriagedoesnotfinishheroff.Sheiscertainlynottobeblamed,ifherfather,theex–stonemason,hadthestupidambitiontomarryagirlofthemiddle–classes.Herfather,youknow,hasthevitiatedbloodofgenerationsofdrunkardsinhisveins,andhermothercomesofastockinthelaststagesofdegeneracy.Ah!theymaycoinmoney,butthatdoesn’tpreventthemfrombeingexcrescencesonthefaceoftheearth!’

Hewasgrowingferocious,andChristinehadtoclasphiminherarmsandkisshim,andlaugh,tomakehimoncemorethegood–naturedfellowofearlierdays.Then,havingcalmeddown,heprofessedtounderstandthings,sayingthatheapprovedofthemarriagesofhisoldchums.Itwastrueenough,allthreehadtakenwivesuntothemselves.Howfunnylifewas!

Oncemorethesummerdrewtoanend;itwasthefourthspentatBennecourt.Inrealitytheycouldneverbehappierthannow;lifewaspeacefulandcheapinthedepthsofthatvillage.Sincetheyhadbeentheretheyhadneverlackedmoney.Claude’sthousandfrancs

ayearandtheproceedsofthefewpictureshehadsoldhadsufficedfortheirwants;theyhadevenputsomethingby,andhadboughtsomehouselinen.Ontheotherhand,littleJacques,bynowtwoyearsandahalfold,gotonadmirablyinthecountry.Frommorningtillnightherolledaboutthegarden,raggedanddirt–begrimed,butgrowingashelistedinrobustruddyhealth.Hismotheroftendidnotknowwheretotakeholdofhimwhenshewishedtowashhimabit.However,whenshesawhimeatandsleepwellshedidnottroublemuch;shereservedheranxiousaffectionforherbigchildofanartist,whosedespondencyfilledherwithanguish.Thesituationgrewworseeachday,andalthoughtheylivedonpeacefullywithoutanycauseforgrief,they,nevertheless,driftedtomelancholy,toadiscomfortthatshoweditselfinconstantirritation.

Itwasalloverwiththeirfirstdelightsofcountrylife.Theirrottenboat,stavedin,hadgonetothebottomoftheSeine.Besides,theydidnoteventhinkofavailingthemselvesoftheskiffthattheFaucheurshadplacedattheirdisposal.Theriverboredthem;theyhadgrowntoolazytorow.Theyrepeatedtheirexclamationsofformertimesrespectingcertaindelightfulnooksintheislets,butwithouteverbeingtemptedtoreturnandgazeuponthem.Eventhewalksbytheriver–sidehadlosttheircharm—onewasbroiledthereinsummer,andonecaughtcoldthereinwinter.Andasfortheplateau,thevaststretchoflandplantedwithappletreesthatoverlookedthevillage,itbecamelikeadistantcountry,somethingtoofaroffforonetobesillyenoughtoriskone’slegsthere.Theirhousealsoannoyedthem—thatbarrackswheretheyhadtotaketheirmealsamidthegreasyrefuseofthekitchen,wheretheirroomseemedameeting–placeforthewindsfromeverypointofthecompass.Asafinishingstrokeofbadluck,theapricotshadfailedthatyear,andthefinestofthegiantrose–bushes,whichwereveryold,hadbeensmittenwithsomecankerorotheranddied.Howsorelytimeandhabitworeeverythingaway!Howeternalnatureherselfseemedtoageamidstthatsatiatedweariness.Buttheworstwasthatthepainterhimselfwasgettingdisgustedwiththecountry,nolongerfindingasinglesubjecttoarousehisenthusiasm,butscouringthefieldswithamournfultramp,asifthewholeplacewereavoid,whoselifehehadexhaustedwithoutleavingasmuchasanoverlookedtree,anunforeseeneffectoflighttointeresthim.No,itwasover,frozen,heshouldneveragainbeabletopaintanythingworthlookingatinthatconfoundedcountry!

Octobercamewithitsrain–ladensky.OnoneofthefirstweteveningsClaudeflewintoapassionbecausedinnerwasnotready.HeturnedthatgooseofaMelieoutofthehouseandcloutedJacques,whogotbetweenhislegs.Whereupon,Christine,crying,kissedhimandsaid:

‘Let’sgo,oh,letusgobacktoParis.’

Hedisengagedhimself,andcriedinanangryvoice:‘What,again!Never!doyouhearme?’

‘Doitformysake,’shesaid,warmly.‘It’sIwhoaskitofyou,it’sIthatyou’llplease.’

‘Why,areyoutiredofbeinghere,then?’

‘Yes,Ishalldieifwestayheremuchlonger;and,besidesIwantyoutowork.Ifeelquitecertainthatyourplaceisthere.Itwouldbeacrimeforyoutoburyyourselfhereanylonger.’

‘No,leaveme!’

Hewasquivering.OnthehorizonPariswascallinghim,theParisofwinter–tidewhichwasbeinglighteduponcemore.Hethoughthecouldhearfromwherehestoodthegreateffortsthathiscomradesweremaking,and,infancy,hereturnedthitherinorderthattheymightnottriumphwithouthim,inorderthathemightbecometheirchiefagain,sincenotoneofthemhadstrengthorprideenoughtobesuch.Andamidthishallucination,amidthedesirehefelttohastentoParis,heyetpersistedinrefusingtodoso,fromaspiritofinvoluntarycontradiction,whicharose,thoughhecouldnotaccountforit,fromhisveryentrails.Wasitthefearwithwhichthebravestquivers,themutestruggleofhappinessseekingtoresistthefatalityofdestiny?

‘Listen,’saidChristine,excitedly.‘Ishallgetourboxesready,andtakeyouaway.’

Fivedayslater,afterpackingandsendingtheirchattelstotherailway,theystartedforParis.

ClaudewasalreadyontheroadwithlittleJacques,whenChristinefanciedthatshehadforgottensomething.Shereturnedalonetothehouse;andfindingitquitebareandempty,sheburstoutcrying.Itseemedasifsomethingwerebeingtornfromher,asifshewereleavingsomethingofherselfbehind—what,shecouldnotsay.Howwillinglywouldshehaveremained!howardentwasherwishtolivetherealways—shewhohadjustinsistedonthatdeparture,thatreturntothecityofpassionwhereshescentedthepresenceofarival.However,shecontinuedsearchingforwhatshelacked,andinfrontofthekitchensheendedbypluckingarose,alastrose,whichthecoldwasturningbrown.Andthensheslowlyclosedthegateuponthedesertedgarden.

VIIWHENClaudefoundhimselfoncemoreonthepavementofParishewasseizedwithafeverishlongingforhubbubandmotion,adesiretogadabout,scourthewholecity,andseehischums.Hewasoffthemomentheawoke,leavingChristinetogetthingsshipshapebyherselfinthestudiowhichtheyhadtakenintheRuedeDouai,neartheBoulevarddeClichy.Inthisway,ontheseconddayofhisarrival,hedroppedinatMahoudeau’sateighto’clockinthemorning,inthechill,greyNovemberdawnwhichhadbarelyrisen.

However,theshopintheRueduCherche–Midi,whichthesculptorstilloccupied,wasopen,andMahoudeauhimself,halfasleep,withawhiteface,wasshiveringashetookdowntheshutters.

Ah!it’syou.Thedevil!you’vegotintoearlyhabitsinthecountry.Soit’ssettled—youarebackforgood?’

‘Yes;sincethedaybeforeyesterday.’

‘That’sallright.Thenweshallseesomethingofeachother.Comein;it’ssharpthismorning.’

ButClaudefeltcolderintheshopthanoutside.Hekeptthecollarofhiscoatturnedup,andplungedhishandsdeepintohispockets;shiveringbeforethedrippingmoistureofthebarewalls,themuddyheapsofclay,andthepoolsofwatersoddeningthefloor.Ablastofpovertyhadsweptintotheplace,emptyingtheshelvesofthecastsfromtheantique,andsmashingstandsandbuckets,whichwerenowheldtogetherwithbitsofrope.Itwasanabodeofdirtanddisorder,amason’scellargoingtorackandruin.Onthewindowofthedoor,besmearedwithwhitewash,thereappearedinmockery,asitwere,alargebeamingsun,roughlydrawnwiththumb–strokes,andornamentedinthecentrewithaface,themouthofwhich,describingasemicircle,seemedlikelytoburstwithlaughter.

‘Justwait,’saidMahoudeau,‘afire’sbeinglighted.Theseconfoundedworkshopsgetchillydirectly,withthewaterfromthecoveringcloths.’

Atthatmoment,Claude,onturninground,noticedChaineonhiskneesnearthestove,pullingthestrawfromtheseatofanoldstooltolightthecoalswith.Hebadehimgood–morning,butonlyelicitedamutteredgrowl,withoutsucceedinginmakinghimlookup.

‘Andwhatareyoudoingjustnow,oldman?’heaskedthesculptor.

‘Oh!nothingofmuchaccount.It’sbeenabadyear—worsethanthelastone,whichwasn’twortharap.There’sacrisisinthechurch–statuebusiness.Yes,themarketforholywaresisbad,and,dashit,I’vehadtotightenmybelt!Look,inthemeanwhile,I’mreducedtothis.’

Hethereupontookthelinenwrapsoffabust,showingalongfacestillfurtherelongatedbywhiskers,afacefullofconceitandinfiniteimbecility.

‘It’sanadvocatewholivesnearby.Doesn’thelookrepugnant,eh?Andthewayheworriesmeaboutbeingverycarefulwithhismouth.However,afellowmusteat,mustn’t

he?’

HecertainlyhadanideafortheSalon;anuprightfigure,agirlabouttobathe,dippingherfootinthewater,andshiveringatitsfreshnesswiththatslightshiverthatrendersawomansoadorable.HeshowedClaudealittlemodelofit,whichwasalreadycracking,andthepainterlookedatitinsilence,surprisedanddispleasedatcertainconcessionshenoticedinit:asproutingofprettinessfrombeneathapersistentexaggerationofform,anaturaldesiretoplease,blendedwithalingeringtendencytothecolossal.However,Mahoudeaubeganlamenting;anuprightfigurewasnoendofajob.Hewouldwantironbracesthatcostmoney,andamodellingframe,whichhehadnotgot;infact,alotofappliances.Sohewould,nodoubt,decidetomodelthefigureinarecumbentattitudebesidethewater.

‘Well,whatdoyousay—whatdoyouthinkofit?’heasked.

‘Notbad,’answeredthepainteratlast.‘Alittlebitsentimental,inspiteofthestrappinglimbs;butit’llalldependupontheexecution.Andputherupright,oldman;upright,fortherewouldbenothinginitotherwise.’

Thestovewasroaring,andChaine,stillmute,roseup.Heprowledaboutforaminute,enteredthedarkbackshop,wherestoodthebedthathesharedwithMahoudeau,andthenreappeared,hishatonhishead,butmoresilent,itseemed,thanever.Withhisawkwardpeasantfingersheleisurelytookupastickofcharcoalandthenwroteonthewall:‘Iamgoingtobuysometobacco;putsomemorecoalsinthestove.’Andforthwithhewentout.

Claude,whohadwatchedhimwriting,turnedtotheotherinamazement.

‘What’sup?’

‘Wenolongerspeaktooneanother;wewrite,’saidthesculptor,quietly.

‘Sincewhen?’

‘Sincethreemonthsago.’

‘Andyousleeptogether?’

‘Yes.’

Claudeburstoutlaughing.Ah!dashitall!theymusthavehardnuts.Butwhatwasthereasonofthisfalling–out?ThenMahoudeauventedhisrageagainstthatbruteofaChaine!Hadn’the,onenightoncominghomeunexpectedly,foundhimtreatingMathilde,theherbalistwoman,toapotofjam?No,hewouldneverforgivehimfortreatinghimselfinthatdirtyfashiontodelicaciesonthesly,whilehe,Mahoudeau,washalfstarving,andeatingdrybread.Thedeuce!oneoughttoshareandsharealike.

Andthegrudgehadnowlastedfornearlythreemonthswithoutabreak,withoutanexplanation.Theyhadarrangedtheirlivesaccordingly;theyhadreducedtheirstrictlynecessaryintercoursetoaseriesofshortphrasescharcoaledonthewalls.Asfortherest,theylivedasbefore,sharingthesamebedinthebackshop.Afterall,therewasnoneedforsomuchtalkinlife,peoplemanagedtounderstandoneanotherallthesame.

Whilefillingthestove,Mahoudeaucontinuedtorelievehismind.

‘Well,youmaybelievemeifyoulike,butwhenafellow’salmoststarvingitisn’t

disagreeabletokeepquiet.Yes,onegetsnumbamidstsilence;it’slikeaninsidecoatingthatstillsthegnawingofthestomachabit.Ah,thatChaine!Youhaven’tanotionofhispeasantnature.Whenhehadspenthislastcopperwithoutearningthefortuneheexpectedbypainting,hewentintotrade,apettytrade,whichwastoenablehimtofinishhisstudies.Isn’tthefellowasharp‘un,eh?Andjustlistentohisplan.HehadsomeoliveoilsenttohimfromSaint–Firmin,hisvillage,andthenhetrampedthestreetsandfoundamarketfortheoilamongwell–to–dofamiliesfromProvencelivinginParis.Unfortunately,itdidnotlast.Heissuchaclod–hopperthattheyshowedhimthedooronallsides.Andastherewasajarofoilleftwhichnobodywouldbuy,well,oldman,weliveuponit.Yes,onthedayswhenwehappentohavesomebreadwedipourbreadintoit.’

Thereuponhepointedtothejarstandinginacorneroftheshop.Someoftheoilhavingbeenspilt,thewallandthefloorweredarkenedbylargegreasystains.

Claudeleftofflaughing.Ah!misery,howdiscouragingitwas!howcouldheshowhimselfhardonthosewhomitcrushed?Hewalkedaboutthestudio,nolongervexedatfindingmodelsweakenedbyconcessionstomiddle–classtaste;heevenfelttolerantwithregardtothathideousbust.But,allatonce,hecameacrossacopythatChainehadmadeattheLouvre,aMantegna,whichwasmarvellouslyexactinitsdryness.

‘Oh,thebrute,’hemuttered,‘it’salmosttheoriginal;he’sneverdoneanythingbetterthanthat.Perhapshisonlyfaultisthathewasbornfourcenturiestoolate.’

Then,astheheatbecametoogreat,hetookoffhisover–coat,adding:

‘He’salongwhilefetchinghistobacco.’

‘Oh!histobacco!Iknowwhatthatmeans,’saidMahoudeau,whohadsettoworkathisbust,finishingthewhiskers;‘hehassimplygonenextdoor.’

‘Oh!soyoustillseetheherbalist?’

‘Yes,shecomesinandout.’

HespokeofMathildeandChainewithouttheleastshowofanger,simplysayingthathethoughtthewomancrazy.SincelittleJabouille’sdeathshehadbecomedevoutagain,thoughthisdidnotpreventherfromscandalisingtheneighbourhood.Herbusinesswasgoingtowreck,andbankruptcyseemedimpending.Onenight,thegascompanyhavingcutoffthegasindefaultofpayment,shehadcometoborrowsomeoftheiroliveoil,which,afterall,wouldnotburninthelamps.Inshort,itwasquiteadisaster;thatmysteriousshop,withitsfleetingshadowsofpriests’gowns,itsdiscreetconfessional–likewhispers,anditsodourofsacristyincense,wasglidingtotheabandonmentofruin.Andthewretchednesshadreachedsuchapointthatthedriedherbssuspendedfromtheceilingswarmedwithspiders,whiledefunctleeches,whichhadalreadyturnedgreen,floatedonthetopsoftheglassjars.

‘Hallo,herehecomes!’resumedthesculptor.‘You’llseeherarriveathisheels.’

Infact,Chainecamein.Hemadeagreatshowofdrawingascrewoftobaccofromhispocket,thenfilledhispipe,andbegantosmokeinfrontofthestove,remainingobstinatelysilent,asiftherewerenobodypresent.AndimmediatelyafterwardsMathildemadeherappearancelikeaneighbourwhocomesintosay‘Goodmorning.’Claude

thoughtthatshehadgrownstillthinner,buthereyeswereallafire,andhermouthwasseeminglyenlargedbythelossoftwomoreteeth.Thesmellofaromaticherbswhichshealwayscarriedinheruncombedhairseemedtohavebecomerancid.Therewasnolongerthesweetnessofcamomile,thefreshnessofaniseed;shefilledtheplacewithahorridodourofpeppermintthatseemedtobeherverybreath.

‘Alreadyatwork!’sheexclaimed.‘Goodmorning.’And,withoutmindingClaude,shekissedMahoudeau.Then,aftergoingtoshakehandswiththepainterinherbrazenway,shecontinued:

‘Whatdoyouthink?I’vefoundaboxofmallowroot,andwewilltreatourselvestoitforbreakfast.Isn’tthatniceofmenow!We’llshare.’

‘Thanks,’saidthesculptor,‘itmakesmymouthsticky.Iprefertosmokeapipe.’

And,seeingthatClaudewasputtingonhisovercoatagain,heasked:‘Areyougoing?’

‘Yes.Iwanttogettherustoff,andbreathetheairofParisabit.’

Allthesame,hestoppedforanotherfewminuteswatchingChaineandMathilde,whostuffedthemselveswithmallowroot,eachtakingapiecebyturns.Andthoughhehadbeenwarned,hewasagainamazedwhenhesawMahoudeautakeupthestickofcharcoalandwriteonthewall:‘Givemethetobaccoyouhaveshovedintoyourpocket.’

Withoutaword,Chainetookoutthescrewandhandedittothesculptor,whofilledhispipe.

‘Well,I’llseeyouagainsoon,’saidClaude.

‘Yes,soon—atanyrate,nextThursday,atSandoz’s.’

Outside,Claudegaveanexclamationofsurpriseonjostlingagentleman,whostoodinfrontoftheherbalist’speeringintotheshop.

‘What,Jory!Whatareyoudoingthere?’

Jory’sbigpinknosegaveasniff.

‘I?Nothing.Iwaspassingandlookedin,’saidheindismay.

Thenhedecidedtolaugh,and,asiftherewereanyonetooverhearhim,loweredhisvoicetoask:

‘Sheisnextdoorwithourfriends,isn’tshe?Allright;let’sbeoff,quick!’

Andhetookthepainterwithhim,tellinghimallmannerofstrangestoriesofthatcreatureMathilde.

‘Butyouusedtosaythatshewasfrightful,’saidClaude,laughing.

Jorymadeacarelessgesture.Frightful?No,hehadnotgoneasfarasthat.Besides,theremightbesomethingattractiveaboutawomaneventhoughshehadaplainface.ThenheexpressedhissurpriseatseeingClaudeinParis,and,whenhehadbeenfullyposted,andlearnedthatthepaintermeanttoremainthereforgood,heallatonceexclaimed:

‘Listen,Iamgoingtotakeyouwithme.YoumustcometolunchwithmeatIrma’s.’

Thepainter,takenaback,refusedenergetically,andgaveasareasonthathewasn’tevenwearingafrock–coat.

‘Whatdoesthatmatter?Onthecontrary,itmakesitmoredroll.She’llbedelighted.Ibelieveshehasasecretpartialityforyou.Sheisalwaystalkingaboutyoutous.Come,don’tbeafool.Itellyousheexpectsmethismorning,andweshallbereceivedlikeprinces.’

HedidnotrelaxhisholdonClaude’sarm,andtheybothcontinuedtheirwaytowardstheMadeleine,talkingallthewhile.Asarule,Jorykeptsilentabouthismanyloveadventures,justasadrunkardkeepssilentabouthispotations.Butthatmorninghebrimmedoverwithrevelations,chaffedhimselfandownedtoallsortsofscandalousthings.Afterallhewasdelightedwithexistence,hisaffairswentapace.Hismiserlyfatherhadcertainlycutoffthesuppliesoncemore,cursinghimforobstinatelypursuingascandalouscareer,buthedidnotcarearapforthatnow;heearnedbetweensevenandeightthousandfrancsayearbyjournalism,inwhichhewasmakinghiswayasagossipyleaderwriterandartcritic.Thenoisydaysof‘TheDrummer,’thearticlesatalouisapiece,hadbeenleftfarbehind.Hewasgettingsteady,wrotefortwowidelycirculatedpapers,andalthough,inhisinmostheartheremainedascepticalvoluptuary,aworshipperofsuccessatanyprice,hewasacquiringimportance,andreadersbegantolookuponhisopinionsasfiats.Swayedbyhereditarymeanness,healreadyinvestedmoneyeverymonthinpettyspeculations,whichwereonlyknowntohimself,forneverhadhisvicescosthimlessthannowadays.

AsheandClaudereachedtheRuedeMoscou,hetoldthepainterthatitwastherethatIrmaBecotnowlived.‘Oh!sheisrollinginwealth,’saidhe,‘payingtwentythousandfrancsayearrentandtalkingofbuildingahousewhichwouldcosthalfamillion.’Thensuddenlypullingupheexclaimed:‘Come,hereweare!Inwithyou,quick!’

ButClaudestillobjected.Hiswifewaswaitingforhimtolunch;hereallycouldn’t.AndJorywasobligedtoringthebell,andthenpushhiminsidethehall,repeatingthathisexcusewouldnotdo;fortheywouldsendthevalettotheRuedeDouaitotellhiswife.AdooropenedandtheyfoundthemselvesfacetofacewithIrmaBecot,whoutteredacryofsurpriseassoonassheperceivedthepainter.

‘What!isityou,savage?’shesaid.

Shemadehimfeelathomeatoncebytreatinghimlikeanoldchum,and,infact,hesawwellenoughthatshedidnotevennoticehisoldclothes.Hehimselfwasastonished,forhebarelyrecognisedher.Inthecourseoffouryearsshehadbecomeadifferentbeing;herheadwas‘madeup’withallanactress’sskill,herbrowhiddenbeneathamassofcurlyhair,andherfaceelongated,byasheereffortofwill,nodoubt.Andfromapaleblondeshehadbecomeflaringlycarrotty;sothataTitianesquecreatureseemedtohavesprungfromthelittleurchin–likegirlofformerdays.Herhouse,withallitsshowofluxury,stillhaditsbaldspots.Whatstruckthepainterweresomegoodpicturesonthewalls,aCourbet,and,aboveall,anunfinishedstudybyDelacroix.Sothiswild,wilfulcreaturewasnotaltogetherafool,althoughtherewasafrightfulcatincolouredbiscuitstandingonaconsoleinthedrawing–room.

WhenJoryspokeofsendingthevalettohisfriend’splace,sheexclaimedingreatsurprise:

‘What!youaremarried?’

‘Why,yes,’saidClaude,simply.

SheglancedatJory,whosmiled;thensheunderstood,andadded:

‘Ah!Butwhydidpeopletellmethatyouwereawoman–hater?I’mawfullyvexed,youknow.Ifrightenedyou,don’tyouremember,eh?Youstillthinkmeveryugly,don’tyou?Well,well,we’lltalkaboutitallsomeotherday.’

ItwasthecoachmanwhowenttotheRuedeDouaiwithanotefromClaude,forthevalethadopenedthedoorofthedining–room,toannouncethatlunchwasserved.Therepast,averydelicateone,waspartakenofinallpropriety,undertheicystareoftheservant.TheytalkedaboutthegreatbuildingworksthatwererevolutionisingParis;andthendiscussedthepriceofland,likemiddle–classpeoplewithmoneytoinvest.Butatdessert,whentheywereallthreealonewiththecoffeeandliqueurs,whichtheyhaddecidedupontakingthere,withoutleavingthetable,theygraduallybecameanimated,anddroppedintotheiroldfamiliarways,asiftheyhadmeteachotherattheCafeBaudequin.

‘Ah,mylads,’saidIrma,‘thisistheonlyrealenjoyment,tobejollytogetherandtosnapone’sfingersatotherpeople.’

Shewastwistingcigarettes;shehadjustplacedthebottleofchartreusenearher,andhadbeguntoemptyit,lookingthewhileveryflushed,andlapsingoncemoretoherlowstreetdrollery.

‘So,’continuedJory,whowasapologisingfornothavingsentherthatmorningabookshewanted,‘Iwasgoingtobuyitlastnightataboutteno’clock,whenImetFagerolles—’

‘Youaretellingalie,’saidshe,interruptinghiminaclearvoice.Andtocutshorthisprotestations—‘Fagerolleswashere,’sheadded,‘soyouseethatyouaretellingalie.’

Then,turningtoClaude,‘No,it’stoodisgusting.Youcan’tconceivewhataliarheis.Hetellslieslikeawoman,forthepleasureofit,forthemeresttrifle.Now,thewholeofhisstoryamountssimplytothis:thathedidn’twanttospendthreefrancstobuymethatbook.Eachtimehewastohavesentmeabouquet,hehaddroppeditunderthewheelsofacarriage,ortherewerenoflowerstobehadinallParis.Ah!there’safellowwhoonlycaresforhimself,andnomistake.’

Jory,withoutgettingintheleastangry,tiltedbackhischairandsuckedhiscigar,merelysayingwithasneer:

‘Oh!ifyouseeFagerollesnow—’

‘Well,whatofit?’shecried,becomingfurious.‘It’snobusinessofyours.IsnapmyfingersatyourFagerolles,doyouhear?Heknowsverywellthatpeopledon’tquarrelwithme.Weknoweachother;wesproutedinthesamecrackbetweenthepaving–stones.Lookhere,wheneverIlike,Ihaveonlytoholdupmyfinger,andyourFagerolleswillbethereonthefloor,lickingmyfeet.’

Shewasgrowinganimated,andJorythoughtitprudenttobeataretreat.

’MyFagerolles,’hemuttered;‘myFagerolles.’

‘Yes,yourFagerolles.DoyouthinkthatIdon’tseethroughyouboth?Heisalways

pattingyouontheback,ashehopestogetarticlesoutofyou,andyouaffectgenerosityandcalculatetheadvantageyou’llderiveifyouwriteupanartistlikedbythepublic.’

ThistimeJorystuttered,feelingverymuchannoyedonaccountofClaudebeingthere.Hedidnotattempttodefendhimself,however,preferringtoturnthequarrelintoajoke.Wasn’tsheamusing,eh?whensheblazeduplikethat,withherlustrouswickedeyes,andhertwitchingmouth,eagertoindulgeinvituperation?

‘Butremember,mydear,thissortofthingcracksyourTitianesque“make–up,”’headded.

Shebegantolaugh,mollifiedatonce.

Claude,baskinginphysicalcomfort,keptonsippingsmallglassesofcognaconeafteranother,withoutnoticingit.Duringthetwohourstheyhadbeenthereakindofintoxicationhadstolenoverthem,thehallucinatoryintoxicationproducedbyliqueursandtobaccosmoke.Theychangedtheconversation;thehighpricesthatpictureswerefetchingcameintoquestion.Irma,whonolongerspoke,keptabitofextinguishedcigarettebetweenherlips,andfixedhereyesonthepainter.Atlastsheabruptlybegantoquestionhimabouthiswife.

Herquestionsdidnotappeartosurprisehim;hisideasweregoingastray:‘Shehadjustcomefromtheprovinces,’hesaid.‘Shewasinasituationwithalady,andwasaverygoodandhonestgirl.’

‘Pretty?’

‘Why,yes,pretty.’

ForamomentIrmarelapsedintoherreverie,thenshesaid,smiling:‘Dashitall!Howluckyyouare!’

Thensheshookherself,andexclaimed,risingfromthetable:‘Nearlythreeo’clock!Ah!mychildren,Imustturnyououtofthehouse.Yes,Ihaveanappointmentwithanarchitect;IamgoingtoseesomegroundneartheParcMonceau,youknow,inthenewquarterwhichisbeingbuilt.Ihavescentedastrokeofbusinessinthatdirection.’

Theyhadreturnedtothedrawing–room.Shestoppedbeforealooking–glass,annoyedatseeingherselfsoflushed.

‘It’saboutthathouse,isn’tit?’askedJory.‘Youhavefoundthemoney,then?’

Shebroughtherhairdownoverherbrowagain,thenwithherhandsseemedtoeffacetheflushonhercheeks;elongatedtheovalofherface,andrearrangedhertawnyhead,whichhadallthecharmofaworkofart;andfinally,turninground,shemerelythrewJorythesewordsbywayofreply:Look!there’smyTitianesqueeffectbackagain.’

Shewasalready,amidsttheirlaughter,edgingthemtowardsthehall,whereoncemore,withoutspeaking,shetookClaude’shandsinherown,herglanceyetagaindivingintothedepthsofhiseyes.Whenhereachedthestreethefeltuncomfortable.Thecoldairdissipatedhisintoxication;heremorsefullyreproachedhimselfforhavingspokenofChristineinthathouse,andsworetohimselfthathewouldneversetfootthereagain.

Indeed,akindofshamedeterredClaudefromgoinghome,andwhenhiscompanion,excitedbytheluncheonandfeelinginclinedtoloafabout,spokeofgoingtoshakehands

withBongrand,hewasdelightedwiththeidea,andbothmadetheirwaytotheBoulevarddeClichy.

ForthelasttwentyyearsBongrandhadthereoccupiedaverylargestudio,inwhichhehadinnowisesacrificedtothetastesoftheday,tothatmagnificenceofhangingsandnick–nackswithwhichyoungpainterswerethenbeginningtosurroundthemselves.Itwasthebare,greyishstudiooftheoldstyle,exclusivelyornamentedwithsketchesbythemaster,whichhungthereunframed,andinclosearraylikethevotiveofferingsinachapel.Theonlytokensofeleganceconsistedofachevalglass,oftheFirstEmpirestyle,alargeNormanwardrobe,andtwoarm–chairsupholsteredinUtrechtvelvet,andthreadbarewithusage.Inonecorner,too,abearskinwhichhadlostnearlyallitshaircoveredalargecouch.However,theartisthadretainedsincehisyouthfuldays,whichhadbeenspentinthecampoftheRomanticists,thehabitofwearingaspecialcostume,anditwasinflowingtrousers,inadressing–gownsecuredatthewaistbyasilkencord,andwithhisheadcoveredwithapriest’sskull–cap,thathereceivedhisvisitors.

Hecametoopenthedoorhimself,holdinghispaletteandbrushes.

‘Sohereyouare!Itwasagoodideaofyourstocome!Iwasthinkingaboutyou,mydearfellow.Yes,Idon’tknowwhoitwasthattoldmeofyourreturn,butIsaidtomyselfthatitwouldn’tbelongbeforeIsawyou.’

ThehandthathehadfreegraspedClaude’sinaburstofsincereaffection.HethenshookJory’s,adding:

‘Andyou,youngpontiff;Ireadyourlastarticle,andthankyouforyourkindmentionofmyself.Comein,comein,bothofyou!Youdon’tdisturbme;I’mtakingadvantageofthedaylighttotheverylastminute,forthere’shardlytimetodoanythinginthisconfoundedmonthofNovember.’

Hehadresumedhiswork,standingbeforehiseasel,onwhichtherewasasmallcanvas,whichshowedtwowomen,motheranddaughter,sittingsewingintheembrasureofasunlitwindow.Theyoungfellowsstoodlookingbehindhim.

‘Exquisite,’murmuredClaude,atlast.

Bongrandshruggedhisshoulderswithoutturninground.

‘Pooh!Amerenothingatall.Afellowmustoccupyhistime,eh?Ididthisfromlifeatafriend’shouse,andIamcleaningitabit.’

‘Butit’sperfect—itisalittlegemoftruthandlight,’repliedClaude,warmingup.‘Anddoyouknow,whatovercomesmeisitssimplicity,itsverysimplicity.’

Onhearingthisthepaintersteppedbackandblinkedhiseyes,lookingverymuchsurprised.

‘Youthinkso?Itreallypleasesyou?Well,whenyoucameinIwasjustthinkingitwasafoulbitofwork.Igiveyoumyword,Iwasinthedumps,andfeltconvincedthatIhadn’tascrapoftalentleft.’

Hishandsshook,hisstalwartframetrembledaswiththeagonyoftravail.Heridhimselfofhispalette,andcamebacktowardsthem,hisarmssawingtheair,asitwere;andthis

artist,whohadgrownoldamidstsuccess,whowasassuredofrankingintheFrenchSchool,criedtothem:

‘Itsurprisesyou,eh?buttherearedayswhenIaskmyselfwhetherIshallbeabletodrawanosecorrectly.Yes,witheveryoneofmypicturesIstillfeeltheemotionofabeginner;myheartbeats,anguishparchesmymouth—infact,Ifunkabominably.Ah!youyoungsters,youthinkyouknowwhatfunkmeans;butyouhaven’tasmuchasanotionofit,forifyoufailwithonework,yougetquitsbytryingtodosomethingbetter.Nobodyisdownuponyou;whereaswe,theveterans,whohavegivenourmeasure,whoareobligedtokeepuptothelevelpreviouslyattained,ifnottosurpassit,wemustn’tweakenunderpenaltyofrollingdownintothecommongrave.Andso,Mr.Celebrity,Mr.GreatArtist,wearoutyourbrains,consumeyourselfinstrivingtoclimbhigher,stillhigher,everhigher,andifyouhappentokickyourheelsonthesummit,thinkyourselflucky!Wearyourheelsoutinkickingthemupaslongaspossible,andifyoufeelthatyouaredeclining,why,makeanendofyourselfbyrollingdownamidthedeathrattleofyourtalent,whichisnolongersuitedtotheperiod;rolldownforgetfulofsuchofyourworksasaredestinedtoimmortality,andindespairatyourpowerlesseffortstocreatestillfurther!’

Hisfullvoicehadrisentoafinaloutburstlikethunder,andhisbroadflushedfaceworeanexpressionofanguish.Hestrodeabout,andcontinued,asifcarriedaway,inspiteofhimself,byaviolentwhirlwind:

‘Ihavetoldyouascoreoftimesthatonewasforeverbeginningone’scareerafresh,thatjoydidnotconsistinhavingreachedthesummit,butintheclimbing,inthegaietyofscalingtheheights.Only,youdon’tunderstand,youcannotunderstand;amanmusthavepassedthroughit.Justremember!Youhopeforeverything,youdreamofeverything;itisthehourofboundlessillusions,andyourlegsaresostrongthatthemostfatiguingroadsseemshort;youareconsumedwithsuchanappetiteforglory,thatthefirstpettysuccessesfillyourmouthwithadelicioustaste.Whatafeastitwillbewhenyouareabletogratifyambitiontosatiety!Youhavenearlyreachedthatpoint,andyoulookrightcheerfullyonyourscratches!Well,thethingisaccomplished;thesummithasbeengained;itisnowaquestionofremainingthere.Thenalifeofabominationbegins;youhaveexhaustedintoxication,andyouhavediscoveredthatitdoesnotlastlongenough,thatitisnotworththestruggleithascost,andthatthedregsofthecuptastebitter.Thereisnothinglefttobelearnt,nonewsensationtobefelt;pridehashaditsallowanceoffame;youknowthatyouhaveproducedyourgreatestworks;andyouaresurprisedthattheydidnotbringkeenerenjoymentwiththem.Fromthatmomentthehorizonbecomesvoid;nofreshhopeinflamesyou;thereisnothingleftbuttodie.Andyetyoustillclingon,youwon’tadmitthatit’sallupwithyou,youobstinatelypersistintryingtoproduce—justasoldmenclingtolovewithpainful,ignobleefforts.Ah!amanoughttohavethecourageandthepridetostranglehimselfbeforehislastmasterpiece!’

Whilehespokeheseemedtohaveincreasedinstature,reachingtotheelevatedceilingofthestudio,andshakenbysuchkeenemotionthatthetearsstartedtohiseyes.Andhedroppedintoachairbeforehispicture,askingwiththeanxiouslookofabeginnerwhohasneedofencouragement:

‘Thenthisreallyseemstoyouallright?Imyselfnolongerdaretobelieveanything.Myunhappinessspringsfromthepossessionofbothtoomuchandnotenoughcritical

acumen.ThemomentIbeginasketchIexaltit,then,ifit’snotsuccessful,Itorturemyself.Itwouldbebetternottoknowanythingatallaboutit,likethatbruteChambouvard,orelsetoseeveryclearlyintothebusinessandthengiveuppainting….Reallynow,youlikethislittlecanvas?’

ClaudeandJoryremainedmotionless,astonishedandembarrassedbythosetokensoftheintenseanguishofartinitstravail.Hadtheycomeatamomentofcrisis,thatthismasterthusgroanedwithpain,andconsultedthemlikecomrades?Theworstwasthattheyhadbeenunabletodisguisesomehesitationwhentheyfoundthemselvesunderthegazeoftheardent,dilatedeyeswithwhichheimploredthem—eyesinwhichonecouldreadthehiddenfearofdecline.Theyknewcurrentrumourswellenough;theyagreedwiththeopinionthatsincehis‘VillageWedding’thepainterhadproducednothingequaltothatfamouspicture.Indeed,aftermaintainingsomethingofthatstandardofexcellenceinafewworks,hewasnowglidingintoamorescientific,driermanner.Brightnessofcolourwasvanishing;eachworkseemedtoshowadecline.However,thesewerethingsnottobesaid;soClaude,whenhehadrecoveredhiscomposure,exclaimed:

‘Youneverpaintedanythingsopowerful!’

Bongrandlookedathimagain,straightintheeyes.Thenheturnedtohiswork,inwhichhebecameabsorbed,makingamovementwithhisherculeanarms,asifhewerebreakingeveryboneofthemtoliftthatlittlecanvaswhichwassoverylight.Andhemutteredtohimself:‘Confoundit!howheavyitis!Nevermind,I’lldieatitratherthanshowafalling–off.’

Hetookuphispaletteandgrewcalmatthefirststrokeofthebrush,whilebendinghismanlyshouldersandbroadneck,aboutwhichonenoticedtracesofpeasantbuildremainingamidthebourgeoisrefinementcontributedbythecrossingofclassesofwhichhewastheoutcome.

Silencehadensued,butJory,hiseyesstillfixedonthepicture,asked:

‘Isitsold?’

Bongrandrepliedleisurely,liketheartistwhoworkswhenhelikeswithoutcareofprofit:

‘No;IfeelparalysedwhenI’veadealeratmyback.’And,withoutpausinginhiswork,hewentontalking,growingwaggish.

‘Ah!peoplearebeginningtomakeatradeofpaintingnow.ReallyandtrulyIhaveneverseensuchathingbefore,oldasIamgetting.Forinstance,you,Mr.AmiableJournalist,whataquantityofflowersyouflingtotheyoungonesinthatarticleinwhichyoumentionedme!Thereweretwoorthreeyoungstersspokenofwhoweresimplygeniuses,nothingless.’

Joryburstoutlaughing.

‘Well,whenafellowhasapaper,hemustmakeuseofit.Besides,thepubliclikestohavegreatmendiscoveredforit.’

‘Nodoubt,publicstupidityisboundless,andIamquitewillingthatyoushouldtradeonit.OnlyIrememberthefirststartsthatweoldfellowshad.Dashit!Wewerenotspoiledlikethat,Icantellyou.Wehadtenyears’labourandstrugglebeforeuserewecouldimpose

onpeopleapicturethesizeofyourhand;whereasnowadaysthefirsthobbledehoywhocanstickafigureonitslegsmakesallthetrumpetsofpublicityblare.Andwhatkindofpublicityisit?AhullabaloofromoneendofFrancetotheother,suddenreputationsthatshootupofanight,andburstupononelikethunderbolts,amidthegapingofthethrong.AndIsaynothingoftheworksthemselves,thoseworksannouncedwithsalvoesofartillery,awaitedamidadeliriumofimpatience,maddeningParisforaweek,andthenfallingintoeverlastingoblivion!’

‘Thisisanindictmentagainstjournalism,’saidJory,whohadstretchedhimselfonthecouchandlightedanothercigar.‘Thereisagreatdealtobesaidforandagainstit,butdevilabit,amanmustkeeppacewiththetimes.’

Bongrandshookhishead,andthenstartedoffagain,amidatremendousburstofmirth:

‘No!no!onecannolongerthrowoffthemerestdaubwithoutbeinghailedasayoung“master.”Well,ifyouonlyknewhowyouryoungmastersamuseme!’

Butasifthesewordshadledtosomeotherideas,hecooleddown,andturnedtowardsClaudetoaskthisquestion:‘Bytheway,haveyouseenFagerolles’picture?’

‘Yes,’saidtheyoungfellow,quietly.

Theybothremainedlookingateachother:arestlesssmilehadrisentotheirlips,andBongrandeventuallyadded:

‘There’safellowwhopillagesyourightandleft.’

Jory,becomingembarrassed,hadloweredhiseyes,askinghimselfwhetherheshoulddefendFagerolles.He,nodoubt,concludedthatitwouldbeprofitabletodoso,forhebegantopraisethepictureoftheactressinherdressing–room,anengravingofwhichwasthenattractingagreatdealofnoticeintheprint–shops.Wasnotthesubjectareallymodernone?Wasitnotwellpainted,inthebrightcleartoneofthenewschool?Alittlemorevigourmight,perhaps,havebeendesirable;buteveryoneoughttobelefttohisowntemperament.Andbesides,refinementandcharmwerenotsocommonbyanymeans,nowadays.

Bendingoverhiscanvas,Bongrand,who,asarule,hadnothingbutpaternalpraisefortheyoungones,shookandmadeavisibleefforttoavoidanoutburst.Theexplosiontookplace,however,inspiteofhimself.

‘Justshutup,eh?aboutyourFagerolles!Doyouthinkusgreaterfoolsthanwereallyare?There!youseethegreatpainterherepresent.Yes;Imeantheyounggentlemaninfrontofyou.Well,thewholetrickconsistsinpilferinghisoriginality,anddishingitupwiththewishy–washysauceoftheSchoolofArts!Quiteso!youselectamodernsubject,andyoupaintintheclearbrightstyle,onlyyouadheretocorrectlycommonplacedrawing,toallthehabitualpleasingstyleofcomposition—inshort,totheformulawhichistaughtoveryonderforthepleasureofthemiddle–classes.Andyousouseallthatwithdeftness,thatexecrabledeftnessofthefingerswhichwouldjustaswellcarvecocoanuts,theflowing,pleasantdeftnessthatbegetssuccess,andwhichoughttobepunishedwithpenalservitude,doyouhear?’

Hebrandishedhispaletteandbrushesaloft,inhisclenchedfists.

‘Youaresevere,’saidClaude,feelingembarrassed.‘Fagerollesshowsdelicacyinhiswork.’

‘Ihavebeentold,’mutteredJory,mildly,‘thathehasjustsignedaveryprofitableagreementwithNaudet.’

Thatname,thrownhaphazardintotheconversation,hadtheeffectofoncemoresoothingBongrand,whorepeated,shrugginghisshoulders:

‘Ah!Naudet—ah!Naudet.’

AndhegreatlyamusedtheyoungfellowsbytellingthemaboutNaudet,withwhomhewaswellacquainted.Hewasadealer,who,forsomefewyears,hadbeenrevolutionisingthepicturetrade.Therewasnothingoftheoldfashionabouthisstyle—thegreasycoatandkeentasteofPapaMalgras,thewatchingforthepicturesofbeginners,boughtattenfrancs,toberesoldatfifteen,allthelittlehumdrumcomedyoftheconnoisseur,turninguphisnoseatacovetedcanvasinordertodepreciateit,worshippingpaintinginhisinmostheart,andearningameagrelivingbyquicklyandprudentlyturningoverhispettycapital.No,no;thefamousNaudethadtheappearanceofanobleman,withafancy–patternjacket,adiamondpininhisscarf,andpatent–leatherboots;hewaswellpomadedandbrushed,andlivedinfinestyle,withalivery–stablecarriagebythemonth,astallattheopera,andhisparticulartableatBignon’s.Andheshowedhimselfwhereveritwasthecorrectthingtobeseen.Fortherest,hewasaspeculator,aStockExchangegambler,notcaringonesinglerapaboutart.Butheunfailinglyscentedsuccess,heguessedwhatartistoughttobeproperlystarted,nottheonewhoseemedlikelytodevelopthegeniusofagreatpainter,furnishingfoodfordiscussion,buttheonewhosedeceptivetalent,setoffbyapretendeddisplayofaudacity,wouldcommandapremiuminthemarket.Andthatwasthewayinwhichherevolutionisedthatmarket,givingtheamateuroftastethecoldshoulder,andonlytreatingwiththemoneyedamateur,whoknewnothingaboutart,butwhoboughtapictureashemightbuyashareattheStockExchange,eitherfromvanityorwiththehopethatitwouldriseinvalue.

AtthisstageoftheconversationBongrand,veryjocularbynature,andwithagooddealofthemummerabouthim,begantoenactthescene.EnterNaudetinFagerolles’studio.

‘“You’verealgenius,mydearfellow.Yourlastpictureissold,then?Forhowmuch?”

‘“Forfivehundredfrancs.”

‘“Butyoumustbemad;itwasworthtwelvehundred.Andthisonewhichyouhavebyyou—howmuch?”

‘“Well,myfaith,Idon’tknow.Supposewesaytwelvehundred?”

‘“Whatareyoutalkingabout?Twelvehundredfrancs!Youdon’tunderstandme,then,myboy;it’sworthtwothousand.Itakeitattwothousand.Andfromthisdayforwardyoumustworkfornoonebutmyself—forme,Naudet.Good–bye,good–bye,mydearfellow;don’toverworkyourself—yourfortuneismade.Ihavetakenitinhand.”Wherewithhegoesoff,takingthepicturewithhiminhiscarriage.Hetrotsitroundamonghisamateurs,amongwhomhehasspreadtherumourthathehasjustdiscoveredanextraordinarypainter.Oneoftheamateursbitesatlast,andaskstheprice.

“‘Fivethousand.”

‘“What,fivethousandfrancsforthepictureofamanwhosenamehasn’ttheleastnotoriety?Areyouplayingthefoolwithme?”

‘“Lookhere,I’llmakeyouaproposal;I’llsellityouforfivethousandfrancs,andI’llsignanagreementtotakeitbackinatwelvemonthatsixthousand,ifyounolongercareforit.”

Ofcoursetheamateuristempted.Whatdoesheriskafterall?Inrealityit’sagoodspeculation,andsohebuys.AfterthatNaudetlosesnotime,butdisposesinasimilarmannerofnineortenpaintingsbythesamemanduringthecourseoftheyear.Vanitygetsmingledwiththehopeofgain,thepricesgoup,thepicturesgetregularlyquoted,sothatwhenNaudetreturnstoseehisamateur,thelatter,insteadofreturningthepicture,buysanotheroneforeightthousandfrancs.Andthepricescontinuetogoup,andpaintingdegeneratesintosomethingshady,akindofgoldminesituatedontheheightsofMontmartre,promotedbyanumberofbankers,andaroundwhichthereisaconstantbattleofbank–notes.’

Claudewasgrowingindignant,butJorythoughtitallveryclever,whentherecameaknockatthedoor.Bongrand,whowenttoopenit,utteredacryofsurprise.

‘Naudet,asIlive!Wewerejusttalkingaboutyou.’

Naudet,verycorrectlydressed,withoutaspeckofmudonhim,despitethehorribleweather,bowedandcameinwiththereverentialpolitenessofamanofsocietyenteringachurch.

‘Verypleased—feelflattered,indeed,dearmaster.Andyouonlyspokewellofme,I’msureofit.’

‘Notatall,Naudet,notatall,’saidBongrand,inaquiettone.‘Weweresayingthatyourmanneroftradingwasgivingusanicegenerationofartists—tricksterscrossedwithdishonestbusinessmen.’

Naudetsmiled,withoutlosinghiscomposure.

‘Theremarkisharsh,butsocharming!Nevermind,nevermind,dearmaster,nothingthatyousayoffendsme.’

And,droppingintoecstasybeforethepictureofthetwolittlewomenatneedlework:

‘Ah!Goodheavens,Ididn’tknowthis,it’salittlemarvel!Ah!thatlight,thatbroadsubstantialtreatment!OnehastogobacktoRembrandtforanythinglikeit;yes,toRembrandt!Lookhere,Ionlycameintopaymyrespects,butIthankmyluckystarforhavingbroughtmehere.Letusdoalittlebitofbusiness.Letmehavethisgem.Anythingyouliketoaskforit—I’llcoveritwithgold.’

OnecouldseeBongrand’sbackshake,asifhisirritationwereincreasingateachsentence.Hecurtlyinterruptedthedealer.

‘Toolate;it’ssold.’

‘Sold,yousay.Andyoucannotannulyourbargain?Tellme,atanyrate,towhomit’ssold?I’lldoeverything,I’llgiveanything.Ah!Whatahorribleblow!Sold,areyouquite

sureofit?Supposeyouwereoffereddoublethesum?’

‘It’ssold,Naudet.That’senough,isn’tit?’

However,thedealerwentonlamenting.Heremainedforafewminuteslonger,goingintorapturesbeforeothersketches,whilemakingthetourofthestudiowiththekeenglancesofaspeculatorinsearchofluck.Whenherealisedthathistimewasbadlychosen,andthathewouldbeabletotakenothingawaywithhim,hewentoff,bowingwithanairofgratitude,andrepeatingremarksofadmirationasfarasthelanding.

Assoonashehadgone,Jory,whohadlistenedtotheconversationwithsurprise,venturedtoaskaquestion:

‘Butyoutoldus,Ithought—Itisn’tsold,isit?’

Withoutimmediatelyanswering,Bongrandwentbacktohispicture.Then,inhisthunderingvoice,resuminginonecryallhishiddensuffering,thewholeofthenascentstrugglewithinhimwhichhedarednotavow,hesaid:

‘Heplaguesme.Heshallneverhaveanythingofmine!LethimgoandbuyofFagerolles!’

Aquarterofanhourlater,ClaudeandJoryalsosaidgood–bye,leavingBongrandstrugglingwithhisworkinthewaningdaylight.Onceoutside,whentheyoungpainterhadlefthiscompanion,hedidnotatoncereturnhometotheRuedeDouai,inspiteofhislongabsence.Hestillfeltthewantofwalkingabout,ofsurrenderinghimselfuptothatgreatcityofParis,wherethemeetingsofonesingledaysufficedtofillhisbrain;andthisneedofmotionmadehimwanderabouttilltheblacknighthadfallen,throughthefrozenmudofthestreets,beneaththegas–lamps,which,lighteduponebyone,showedlikenebulousstarsamidstthefog.

ClaudeimpatientlyawaitedtheThursdaywhenhewastodineatSandoz’s,forthelatter,immutableinhishabits,stillinvitedhiscroniestodinneronceaweek.Allthosewhochosecouldcome,theircoverswerelaid.Hismarriage,hischangeoflife,theardentliterarystruggleintowhichhehadthrownhimself,madenodifference;hekepttohisday‘athome,’thatThursdaywhichdatedfromthetimehehadleftcollege,fromthetimetheyhadallsmokedtheirfirstpipes.Ashehimselfexpressedit,alludingtohiswife,therewasonlyonechummore.

‘Isay,oldman,’hehadfranklysaidtoClaude,‘I’mgreatlyworried—’

‘Whatabout?’

‘Why,aboutinvitingMadameChristine.Therearealotofidiots,alotofphilistineswatchingme,whowouldsayallmannerofthings—’

‘Youarequiteright,oldman.ButChristineherselfwoulddeclinetocome.Oh!weunderstandthepositionverywell.I’llcomealone,dependuponit.’

Atsixo’clock,ClaudestartedforSandoz’splaceintheRueNollet,inthedepthsofBatignolles,andhehadnoendoftroubleinfindingthesmallpavilionwhichhisfriendhadrented.Firstofallheenteredalargehousefacingthestreet,andappliedtothedoorkeeper,whomadehimcrossthreesuccessivecourtyards;thenhewentdownapassage,betweentwootherbuildings,descendedsomesteps,andtumbledupontheiron

gateofasmallgarden.Thatwasthespot,thepavilionwasthereattheendofapath.Butitwassodark,andhehadnearlybrokenhislegscomingdownthesteps,thathedarednotventureanyfurther,themoresoasahugedogwasbarkingfuriously.AtlastheheardthevoiceofSandoz,whowascomingforwardandtryingtoquietthedog.

‘Ah,it’syou!Wearequiteinthecountry,aren’twe?Wearegoingtosetupalantern,sothatourcompanymaynotbreaktheirnecks.Comein,comein!Willyouholdyournoise,youbruteofaBertrand?Don’tyouseethatit’safriend,fool?’

Thereuponthedogaccompaniedthemasfarasthepavilion,wagginghistailandbarkingjoyously.Ayoungservant–girlhadcomeoutwithalantern,whichshefastenedtothegate,inordertolightupthebreaknecksteps.Inthegardentherewassimplyasmallcentrallawn,onwhichtherestoodalargeplumtree,diffusingashadearoundthatrottedthegrass;andjustinfrontofthelowhouse,whichshowedonlythreewindows,therestretchedanarbourofVirginiacreeper,withabrand–newseatshiningthereasanornamentamidthewintershowers,pendingtheadventofthesummersun.

‘Comein,’repeatedSandoz.

Ontheright–handsideofthehallheusheredClaudeintotheparlour,whichhehadturnedintoastudy.Thedining–roomandkitchenwereontheleft.Upstairs,hismother,whowasnowaltogetherbedridden,occupiedthelargerroom,whileheandhiswifecontentedthemselveswiththeotherone,andadressing–roomthatpartedthetwo.Thatwasthewholeplace,arealcardboardbox,withroomslikelittledrawersseparatedbypartitionsasthinaspaper.Withal,itwastheabodeofworkandhope,vastincomparisonwiththeordinarygarretsofyouth,andalreadymadebrightbyabeginningofcomfortandluxury.

‘There’sroomhere,eh?’heexclaimed.‘Ah!it’sajollysightmorecomfortablethantheRued’Enfer.YouseethatI’vearoomtomyself.AndIhaveboughtmyselfanoakenwriting–table,andmywifemademeapresentofthatdwarfpalminthatpotofoldRouenware.Isn’titswell,eh?’

Hiswifecameinatthatverymoment.Tall,withapleasant,tranquilfaceandbeautifulbrownhair,sheworealargewhiteapronoverherplainlymadedressofblackpoplin;foralthoughtheyhadaregularservant,shesawtothecooking,forshewasproudofcertainofherdishes,andsheputthehouseholdonafootingofmiddle–classcleanlinessandloveofcheer.

SheandClaudebecameoldchumsatonce.

‘CallhimClaude,mydarling.Andyou,oldman,callherHenriette.Nomadamenormonsieur,orIshallfineyoufivesouseachtime.’

Theylaughed,andshescamperedaway,beingwantedinthekitchentolookafterasoutherndish,abouillabaisse,withwhichshewishedtosurprisethePlassansfriend.Shehadobtainedtherecipefromherhusbandhimself,andhadbecomemarvellouslydeftatit,sohesaid.

‘Yourwifeischarming,’saidClaude,‘andIseeshespoilsyou.’

ButSandoz,seatedathistable,withhiselbowsamongsuchpagesofthebookhewasworkingatashehadwrittenthatmorning,begantotalkofthefirstnovelofhisseries,

whichhehadpublishedinOctober.Ah!theyhadtreatedhispoorbooknicely!Ithadbeenathrottling,abutchering,allthecriticsyellingathisheels,abroadsideofimprecations,asifhehadmurderedpeopleinawood.Hehimselflaughedatit,excitedratherthanotherwise,forhehadsturdyshouldersandthequietbearingofatoilerwhoknowswhathe’safter.Meresurpriseremainedtohimattheprofoundlackofintelligenceshownbythosefellowsthecritics,whosearticles,knockedoffonthecornerofsometable,bespatteredhimwithmud,withoutappearingasmuchastoguessattheleastofhisintentions.Everythingwasflungintothesameslop–pailofabuse:hisstudiesofphysiologicalman;theimportantpartheassignedtocircumstancesandsurroundings;hisallusionstonature,everandevercreating;inshort,life—entire,universallife—existentthroughalltheanimalworldwithouttherereallybeingeitherhighorlow,beautyorugliness;hewasinsulted,too,forhisboldnessoflanguagefortheconvictionheexpressedthatallthingsoughttobesaid,thatthereareabominableexpressionswhichbecomenecessary,likebrandingirons,andthatalanguageemergesenrichedfromsuchstrength–givingbaths.Heeasilygrantedtheiranger,buthewouldatleasthavelikedthemtodohimthehonourofunderstandinghimandgettingangryathisaudacity,notattheidiotic,filthydesignsofwhichhewasaccused.

‘Really,’hecontinued,‘Ibelievethattheworldstillcontainsmoreidiotsthandownrightspitefulpeople.TheyareenragedwithmeonaccountoftheformIgivetomyproductions,thewrittensentences,thesimiles,theverylifeofmystyle.Yes,themiddle–classesfairlysplitwithhatredofliterature!’

Thenhebecamesilent,havinggrownsad.

‘Nevermind,’saidClaude,afteraninterval,‘youarehappy,youatleastwork,youproduce—’

Sandozhadrisenfromhisseatwithagestureofsuddenpain.

‘True,Iwork.Iworkoutmybookstotheirlastpages—Butifyouonlyknew,ifItoldyouamidstwhatdiscouragement,amidstwhattorture!Won’tthoseidiotstakeitintotheirheadstoaccusemeofpride!I,whomtheimperfectionofmyworkpursueseveninmysleep—I,whoneverlookoverthepagesofthedaybefore,lestIshouldfindthemsoexecrablethatImightafterwardslackthecouragetocontinue.Oh,Iwork,nodoubt,Iwork!Igoonworking,asIgoonliving,becauseIamborntoit,butIamnonethegayeronaccountofit.Iamneversatisfied;thereisalwaysagreatcollapseattheend.’

Hewasinterruptedbyaloudexclamationoutside,andJoryappeared,delightedwithlife,andrelatingthathehadjusttouchedupanoldarticleinordertohavetheeveningtohimself.AlmostimmediatelyafterwardsGagniereandMahoudeau,whohadmetatthedoor,cameinconversingtogether.Theformer,whohadbeenabsorbedforsomemonthsinatheoryofcolours,wasexplaininghissystemtotheother.

‘Ipaintmyshadein,’hecontinued,asifinadream.‘Theredoftheflaglosesitsbrightnessandbecomesyellowishbecauseitstandsoutagainsttheblueofthesky,thecomplementaryshadeofwhich—orange—blendswithred—’

Claude,interestedatonce,wasalreadyquestioninghimwhentheservantbroughtinatelegram.

‘Allright,’saidSandoz,‘it’sfromDubuche,whoapologises;hepromisestocomeandsurpriseusatabouteleveno’clock.’

AtthismomentHenriettethrewthedoorwideopen,andpersonallyannouncedthatdinnerwasready.Shehaddoffedherwhiteapron,andcordiallyshookhands,ashostess,withallofthem.‘Takeyourseats!takeyourseats!’washercry.Itwashalf–pastsevenalready,thebouillabaissecouldnotwait.Jory,havingobservedthatFagerolleshadsworntohimthathewouldcome,theywouldnotbelieveit.Fagerolleswasgettingridiculouswithhishabitofapingthegreatartistoverwhelmedwithwork!

Thedining–roomintowhichtheypassedwassosmallthat,inordertomakeroomforapiano,akindofalcovehadbeenmadeoutofadarkclosetwhichhadformerlyservedfortheaccommodationofcrockery.However,ongrandoccasionshalfascoreofpeoplestillgatheredroundthetable,underthewhiteporcelainhanginglamp,butthiswasonlyaccomplishedbyblockingupthesideboard,sothattheservantcouldnotevenpasstotakeaplatefromit.However,itwasthemistressofthehousewhocarved,whilethemastertookhisplacefacingher,againsttheblockadedsideboard,inordertohandroundwhateverthingsmightberequired.

HenriettehadplacedClaudeonherrighthand,Mahoudeauonherleft,whileGagniereandJorywereseatednexttoSandoz.

‘Francoise,’shecalled,‘givemetheslicesoftoast.Theyareontherange.’

Andthegirlhavingbroughtthetoast,shedistributedtwoslicestoeachofthem,andwasbeginningtoladlethebouillabaisseintotheplates,whenthedooropenedoncemore.

‘Fagerollesatlast!’shesaid.‘IhavegivenyourseattoMahoudeau.Sitdownthere,nexttoClaude.’

Heapologisedwithanairofcourtlypoliteness,byallegingabusinessappointment.Veryelegantlydressed,tightlybuttonedupinclothesofanEnglishcut,hehadthecarriageofamanabouttown,relievedbytheretentionofatouchofartisticfree–and–easiness.Immediatelyonsittingdownhegraspedhisneighbour’shand,affectinggreatdelight.

‘Ah,myoldClaude!Ihaveforsuchalongtimewantedtoseeyou.AscoreoftimesIintendedgoingafteryouintothecountry;butthen,youknow,circumstances—’

Claude,feelinguncomfortableattheseprotestations,endeavouredtomeetthemwithalikecordiality.ButHenriette,whowasstillserving,savedthesituationbygrowingimpatient.

‘Come,Fagerolles,justanswerme.Doyouwishtwoslicesoftoast?’

‘Certainly,madame,two,ifyouplease.Iamveryfondofbouillabaisse.Besides,yoursisdelicious,amarvel!’

Infact,theyallwentintorapturesoverit,especiallyJoryandMahoudeau,whodeclaredtheyhadnevertastedanythingbetteratMarseilles;somuchso,thattheyoungwife,delightedandstillflushedwiththeheatofthekitchen,herladleinherhand,hadallshecoulddotorefilltheplatesheldouttoher;and,indeed,sheroseupandraninpersontothekitchentofetchtheremainsofthesoup,fortheservant–girlwaslosingherwits.

‘Come,eatsomething,’saidSandoztoher.‘We’llwaitwellenoughtillyouhavedone.’

Butshewasobstinateandremainedstanding.

‘Nevermindme.Youhadbetterpassthebread—yes,there,behindyouonthesideboard.Jorypreferscrumb,whichhecansoakinthesoup.’

Sandozroseinhisturnandassistedhiswife,whiletheotherschaffedJoryonhisloveforsops.AndClaude,movedbythepleasantcordialityofhishosts,andawaking,asitwere,fromalongsleep,lookedatthemall,askinghimselfwhetherhehadonlyleftthemonthepreviousnight,orwhetherfouryearshadreallyelapsedsincehehaddinedwiththemoneThursday.Theyweredifferent,however;hefeltthemtobechanged:Mahoudeausouredbymisery,Jorywraptupinhisownpleasures,Gagnieremoredistant,withhisthoughtselsewhere.AnditespeciallyseemedtohimthatFagerolleswaschilly,inspiteofhisexaggeratedcordialityofmanner.Nodoubttheirfeatureshadagedsomewhatamidthewearandtearoflife;butitwasnotonlythatwhichhenoticed,itseemedtohimalsoasiftherewasavoidbetweenthem;hebeheldthemisolatedandestrangedfromeachother,althoughtheywereseatedelbowtoelbowinclosearrayroundthetable.Thenthesurroundingsweredifferent;nowadays,awomanbroughthercharmtobearonthem,andcalmedthembyherpresence.Thenwhydidhe,facetofacewiththeirrevocablecurrentofthings,whichdieandarerenewed,experiencethatsensationofbeginningsomethingoveragain—whywasitthathecouldhaveswornthathehadbeenseatedatthatsameplaceonlylastThursday?Atlasthethoughtheunderstood.ItwasSandozwhohadnotchanged,whoremainedasobstinateasregardshishabitsoffriendship,asregardshishabitsofwork,asradiantatbeingabletoreceivehisfriendsattheboardofhisnewhomeashehadformerlybeen,whensharinghisfrugalbachelorfarewiththem.Adreamofeternalfriendshipmadehimchangeless.Thursdayssimilaronetoanotherfollowedandfollowedonuntilthefurtheststagesoftheirlives.Allofthemwereeternallytogether,allstartedattheself–samehour,andparticipatedinthesametriumph!

SandozmusthaveguessedthethoughtthatkeptClaudemute,forhesaidtohimacrossthetable,withhisfrank,youthfulsmile:

‘Well,oldman,hereyouareagain!Ah,confoundit!wemissedyousorely.But,yousee,nothingischanged;weareallthesame—aren’twe,allofyou?’

Theyansweredbynoddingtheirheads—nodoubt,nodoubt!

‘Withthisdifference,’hewenton,beaming—‘withthisdifference,thatthecookeryissomewhatbetterthanintheRued’Enfer!WhatalotofmessesIdidmakeyouswallow!’

Afterthebouillabaissetherecameacivetofhare;andaroastfowlandsaladterminatedthedinner.Buttheysatforalongtimeattable,andthedessertprovedaprotractedaffair,althoughtheconversationlackedthefeverandviolenceofyore.Everyonespokeofhimselfandendedbyrelapsingintosilenceonperceivingthattheothersdidnotlistentohim.Withthecheese,however,whentheyhadtastedsomeburgundy,asharplittlegrowth,ofwhichtheyoungcouplehadorderedacaskoutoftheprofitsofSandoz’sfirstnovel,theirvoicesrosetoahigherkey,andtheyallgrewanimated.

‘SoyouhavemadeanarrangementwithNaudet,eh?’askedMahoudeau,whosebonycheeksseemedtohavegrownyetmorehollow.‘Isittruethatheguaranteesyoufifty

thousandfrancsforthefirstyear?’

Fagerollesreplied,withaffectedcarelessness,‘Yes,fiftythousandfrancs.Butnothingissettled;I’mthinkingitover.Itishardtoengageoneselflikethat.Iamnotgoingtodoanythingprecipitately.’

‘Thedeuce!’mutteredthesculptor;‘youarehardtoplease.FortwentyfrancsadayI’dsignwhateveryoulike.’

TheyallnowlistenedtoFagerolles,whoposedasbeingweariedbyhisbuddingsuccess.Hestillhadthesamegood–looking,disturbinghussy–likeface,butthefashioninwhichheworehishairandthecutofhisbeardlenthimanappearanceofgravity.AlthoughhestillcameatlongintervalstoSandoz’s,hewasseparatingfromtheband;heshowedhimselfontheboulevards,frequentedthecafesandnewspaperoffices—alltheplaceswhereamancanadvertisehimselfandmakeusefulacquaintances.Theseweretacticsofhisown,adeterminationtocarvehisownvictoryapartfromtheothers;thesmartideathatifhewishedtotriumphheoughttohavenothingmoreincommonwiththoserevolutionists,neitherdealer,norconnections,norhabits.Itwasevensaidthathehadinterestedthefemaleelementoftwoorthreedrawing–roomsinhissuccess,notinJory’sstyle,butlikeaviciousfellowwhorisessuperiortohispassions,andiscontenttoadulatesuperannuatedbaronesses.

JustthenJory,inviewoflendingimportancetohimself,calledFagerolles’attentiontoarecentlypublishedarticle;hepretendedthathehadmadeFagerollesjustashepretendedthathehadmadeClaude.‘Isay,haveyoureadthatarticleofVernier’saboutyourself?There’sanotherfellowwhorepeatsmyideas!’

‘Ah,hedoesgetarticles,andnomistake!’sighedMahoudeau.

Fagerollesmadeacarelessgesture,buthesmiledwithsecretcontemptforallthosepoorbeggarswhoweresoutterlydeficientinshrewdnessthattheyclung,likesimpletons,totheircrudestyle,whenitwassoeasytoconquerthecrowd.Haditnotsufficedforhimtobreakwiththem,afterpillagingthem,tomakehisownfortune?Hebenefitedbyallthehatredthatfolkshadagainstthem;hispictures,ofasoftened,attenuatedstyle,wereheldupinpraise,soastodealthedeath–blowtotheireverobstinatelyviolentworks.

‘HaveyoureadVernier’sarticle?’askedJoryofGagniere.‘Doesn’thesayexactlywhatIsaid?’

ForthelastfewmomentsGagnierehadbeenabsorbedincontemplatinghisglass,thewineinwhichcastaruddyreflectiononthewhitetablecloth.Hestarted:

‘Eh,what,Vernier’sarticle?’

‘Why,yes;infact,allthosearticleswhichappearaboutFagerolles.’

Gagniereinamazementturnedtothepainter.

‘What,aretheywritingarticlesaboutyou?Iknownothingaboutthem,Ihaven’tseenthem.Ah!theyarewritingarticlesaboutyou,butwhateverfor?’

Therewasamadroaroflaughter.Fagerollesalonegrinnedwithanillgrace,forhefanciedhimselfthebuttofsomespitefuljoke.ButGagnierespokeinabsolutegoodfaith.

Hefeltsurprisedatthesuccessofapainterwhodidnotevenobservethelawsregulatingthevalueoftints.Successforthattrickster!Never!Forinthatcasewhatwouldbecomeofconscientiousness?

Thisboisteroushilarityenlivenedtheendofthedinner.Theyallleftoffeating,thoughthemistressofthehousestillinsisteduponfillingtheirplates.

‘Mydear,doattendtothem,’shekeptsayingtoSandoz,whohadgrowngreatlyexcitedamidstthedin.‘Juststretchoutyourhand;thebiscuitsareontheside–board.’

Theyalldeclinedanythingmore,androseup.Astherestoftheeveningwastobespentthere,roundthetable,drinkingtea,theyleanedbackagainstthewallsandcontinuedchattingwhiletheservantclearedaway.Theyoungcoupleassisted,Henrietteputtingthesalt–cellarsinadrawer,andSandozhelpingtofoldthecloth.

‘Youcansmoke,’saidHenriette.‘Youknowthatitdoesn’tinconveniencemeintheleast.’

Fagerolles,whohaddrawnClaudeintothewindowrecess,offeredhimacigar,whichwasdeclined.

‘True,Iforgot;youdon’tsmoke.Ah!Isay,Imustgotoseewhatyouhavebroughtbackwithyou.Someveryinterestingthings,nodoubt.YouknowwhatIthinkofyourtalent.Youarethecleverestofusall.’

Heshowedhimselfveryhumble,sincereatheart,andallowinghisadmirationofformerdaystoriseoncemoretothesurface;indeed,heforeverboretheimprintofanother’sgenius,whichheadmitted,despitethecomplexcalculationsofhiscunningmind.Buthishumilitywasmingledwithacertainembarrassmentveryrarewithhim—theconcernhefeltatthesilencewhichthemasterofhisyouthpreservedrespectinghislastpicture.Atlastheventuredtoask,withquiveringlips:

‘DidyouseemyactressattheSalon?Doyoulikeit?Tellmecandidly.’

Claudehesitatedforamoment;then,likethegood–naturedfellowhewas,said:

‘Yes;therearesomeverygoodbitsinit.’

Fagerollesalreadyrepentedhavingaskedthatstupidquestion,andheendedbyaltogetherfloundering;hetriedtoexcusehimselfforhisplagiarismsandhiscompromises.Whenwithgreatdifficultyhehadgotoutofthemess,enragedwithhimselfforhisclumsiness,heforamomentbecamethejokerofyoreagain,madeevenClaudelaughtillhecried,andamusedthemall.AtlastheheldouthishandtotakeleaveofHenriette.

‘What,goingsosoon?’

‘Alas!yes,dearmadame.Thiseveningmyfatherisentertainingtheheadofadepartmentatoneoftheministries,anofficialwhomhe’stryingtoinfluenceinviewofobtainingadecoration;and,asIamoneofhistitlestothatdistinction,IhadtopromisethatIwouldlookin.’

Whenhewasgone,Henriette,whohadexchangedafewwordsinalowvoicewithSandoz,disappeared;andherlightfootfallwasheardonthefirstfloor.Sincehermarriageitwasshewhotendedtheold,infirmmother,absentingherselfinthisfashionseveraltimesduringtheevening,justasthesonhaddoneformerly.

Notoneoftheguests,however,hadnoticedherleavetheroom.MahoudeauandGagnierewerenowtalkingaboutFagerolles;showingthemselvescovertlybitter,withoutopenlyattackinghim.Asyettheycontentedthemselveswithironicalglancesandshrugsoftheshoulders—allthesilentcontemptoffellowswhodon’twishtoslashachum.ThentheyfellbackonClaude;theyprostratedthemselvesbeforehim,overwhelmedhimwiththehopestheysetinhim.Ah!itwashightimeforhimtocomeback,forhealone,withhisgreatgifts,hisvigoroustouch,couldbecomethemaster,therecognisedchief.SincetheSalonoftheRejectedthe‘schooloftheopenair’hadincreasedinnumbers;agrowinginfluencewasmakingitselffelt;butunfortunately,theeffortswerefritteredaway;thenewrecruitscontentedthemselveswithproducingsketches,impressionsthrownoffwithafewstrokesofthebrush;theywereawaitingthenecessarymanofgenius,theonewhowouldincarnatethenewformulainmasterpieces.Whatapositiontotake!tomasterthemultitude,toopenupacentury,tocreateanewart!Claudelistenedtothem,withhiseyesturnedtothefloorandhisfaceverypale.Yes,thatindeedwashisunavoweddream,theambitionhedarednotconfesstohimself.Only,withthedelightthattheflatterycausedhim,therewasmingledastrangeanguish,adreadofthefuture,asheheardthemraisinghimtothepositionofdictator,asifhehadalreadytriumphed.

‘Don’t,’heexclaimedatlast;‘thereareothersasgoodasmyself.Iamstillseekingmyrealline.’

Jory,whofeltannoyed,wassmokinginsilence.Suddenly,astheothersobstinatelykeptatit,hecouldnotrefrainfromremarking:

‘Allthis,myboys,isbecauseyouarevexedatFagerolles’success.’

Theyenergeticallydeniedit;theyburstoutinprotestations.Fagerolles,theyoungmaster!Whatagoodjoke!

‘Oh,youareturningyourbackuponus,weknowit,’saidMahoudeau.‘There’snofearofyourwritingalineaboutusnowadays.’

‘Well,mydearfellow,’answeredJory,vexed,‘everythingIwriteaboutyouiscutout.Youmakeyourselveshatedeverywhere.Ah!ifIhadapaperofmyown!’

Henriettecameback,andSandoz’seyeshavingsoughthers,sheansweredhimwithaglanceandthesameaffectionate,quietsmilethathehadshownwhenleavinghismother’sroominformertimes.Thenshesummonedthemall.Theysatdownagainroundthetablewhileshemadetheteaandpoureditout.Butthegatheringgrewsad,benumbed,asitwere,withlassitude.SandozvainlytriedadiversionbyadmittingBertrand,thebigdog,whogrovelledatsightofthesugar–basin,andendedbygoingtosleepnearthestove,wherehesnoredlikeaman.SincethediscussiononFagerollestherehadbeenintervalsofsilence,akindofboredirritation,whichfellheavilyuponthemamidstthedensetobaccosmoke.And,infact,Gagnierefeltsooutofsortsthatheleftthetableforamomenttoseathimselfatthepiano,murderingsomepassagesfromWagnerinasubduedkey,withthestifffingersofanamateurwhotrieshisfirstscaleatthirty.

Towardseleveno’clockDubuche,arrivingatlast,contributedthefinishingtouchtothegeneralfrost.Hehadmadehisescapefromaballtofulfilwhatheconsideredaremainingdutytowardshisoldcomrades;andhisdress–coat,hiswhitenecktie,hisfat,paleface,allproclaimedhisvexationathavingcome,theimportanceheattachedtothesacrifice,and

thefearhefeltofcompromisinghisnewposition.Heavoidedmentioninghiswife,sothathemightnothavetobringhertoSandoz’s.WhenhehadshakenhandswithClaude,withoutshowingmoreemotionthanifhehadmethimthedaybefore,hedeclinedacupofteaandspokeslowly—puffingouthischeeksthewhile—ofhisworryinsettlinginabrand–newhouse,andoftheworkthathadoverwhelmedhimsincehehadattendedtothebusinessofhisfather–in–law,whowasbuildingawholestreetneartheParcMonceau.

ThenClaudedistinctlyfeltthatsomethinghadsnapped.Hadlifethenalreadycarriedawaytheeveningsofformerdays,thoseeveningssofraternalintheirveryviolence,whennothinghadasyetseparatedthem,whennotoneofthemhadthoughtofkeepinghispartofglorytohimself?Nowadaysthebattlewasbeginning.Eachhungryonewaseagerlybiting.Andafissurewasthere,ascarcelyperceptiblecrackthathadrenttheold,swornfriendships,andsomedaywouldmakethemcrumbleintoathousandpieces.

However,Sandoz,withhiscravingforperpetuity,hadsofarnoticednothing;hestillbeheldthemastheyhadbeenintheRued’Enfer,allarminarm,startingofftovictory.Whychangewhatwaswell?Didnothappinessconsistinonepleasureselectedfromamongall,andthenenjoyedforeverafterwards?Andwhen,anhourlater,theothersmadeuptheirmindstogooff,weariedbythedullegotismofDubuche,whohadnotleftofftalkingabouthisownaffairs;whentheyhaddraggedGagniere,inatrance,awayfromthepiano,Sandoz,followedbyhiswife,absolutelyinsisted,despitethecoldnessofthenight,onaccompanyingthemalltothegateattheendofthegarden.Heshookhandsallround,andshoutedafterthem:

‘TillThursday,Claude;tillnextThursday,allofyou,eh?Mindyouallcome!’

‘TillThursday!’repeatedHenriette,whohadtakenthelanternandwasholdingitaloftsoastolightthesteps.

And,amidthelaughter,GagniereandMahoudeaureplied,jokingly:‘TillThursday,youngmaster!Good–night,youngmaster!’

OnceintheRueNollet,Dubucheimmediatelyhailedacab,inwhichhedroveaway.Theotherfourwalkedtogetherasfarastheouterboulevards,scarcelyexchangingaword,lookingdazed,asitwere,athavingbeenineachother’scompanysolong.AtlastJorydecamped,pretendingthatsomeproofswerewaitingforhimattheofficeofhisnewspaper.ThenGagnieremechanicallystoppedClaudeinfrontoftheCafeBaudequin,thegasofwhichwasstillblazingaway.Mahoudeaurefusedtogoin,andwentoffalone,sadlyruminating,towardstheRueduCherche–Midi.

Withoutknowinghow,Claudefoundhimselfseatedattheiroldtable,oppositeGagniere,whowassilent.Thecafehadnotchanged.ThefriendsstillmetthereofaSunday,showingadealoffervour,infact,sinceSandozhadlivedintheneighbourhood;butthebandwasnowlostamidafloodofnew–comers;itwasslowlybeingsubmergedbytheincreasingtritenessoftheyoungdisciplesofthe‘openair.’Atthathourofnight,however,theestablishmentwasgettingempty.Threeyoungpainters,whomClaudedidnotknow,cametoshakehandswithhimastheywentoff;andthentheremerelyremainedapettyretiredtradesmanoftheneighbourhood,asleepinfrontofasaucer.

Gagniere,quiteathisease,asifhehadbeenathome,absolutelyindifferenttotheyawnsofthesolitarywaiter,whowasstretchinghisarms,glancedtowardsClaude,butwithout

seeinghim,forhiseyesweredim.

‘Bytheway,’saidthelatter,‘whatwereyouexplainingtoMahoudeauthisevening?Yes,abouttheredofaflagturningyellowishamidtheblueofthesky.Thatwasit,eh?Youarestudyingthetheoryofcomplementarycolours.’

Buttheotherdidnotanswer.Hetookuphisglassofbeer,setitdownagainwithouttastingitscontents,andwithanecstaticsmileendedbymuttering:

‘Haydnhasallthegracefulnessofarhetorician—hisisagentlemusic,quiveringlikethevoiceofagreat–grandmotherinpowderedhair.Mozart,he’stheprecursorygenius—thefirstwhoendowedanorchestrawithanindividualvoice;andthosetwowilllivemostlybecausetheycreatedBeethoven.Ah,Beethoven!powerandstrengthamidstserenesuffering,MichaelAngeloatthetomboftheMedici!Aheroiclogician,akneaderofhumanbrains;forthesymphony,withchoralaccompaniments,wasthestarting–pointofallthegreatonesofto–day!’

Thewaiter,tiredofwaiting,begantoturnoffthegas,wearilydragginghisfeetalongashedidso.Mournfulnesspervadedthedesertedroom,dirtywithsalivaandcigarends,andreekingofspiltdrink;whilefromthehushedboulevardtheonlysoundthatcamewasthedistantblubberingofsomedrunkard.

Gagniere,stillintheclouds,however,continuedtoridehishobby–horse.

‘Weberpassesbyusamidaromanticlandscape,conductingtheballadsofthedeadamidstweepingwillowsandoakswithtwistedbranches.Schumannfollowshim,beneaththepalemoonlight,alongtheshoresofsilverylakes.Andbehold,herecomesRossini,incarnationofthemusicalgift,sogay,sonatural,withouttheleastconcernforexpression,caringnothingforthepublic,andwhoisn’tmymanbyalongway—ah!certainlynot—butthen,allthesame,heastonishesonebyhiswealthofproduction,andthehugeeffectshederivesfromanaccumulationofvoicesandanever–swellingrepetitionofthesamestrain.ThesethreeledtoMeyerbeer,acunningfellowwhoprofitedbyeverything,introducingsymphonyintooperaafterWeber,andgivingdramaticexpressiontotheunconsciousformulasofRossini.Oh!thesuperbburstsofsound,thefeudalpomp,themartialmysticism,thequiveringoffantasticlegends,thecryofpassionringingoutthroughhistory!Andsuchfinds!—eachinstrumentendowedwithapersonality,thedramaticrecitativesaccompaniedsymphoniouslybytheorchestra—thetypicalmusicalphraseonwhichanentireworkisbuilt!Ah!hewasagreatfellow—averygreatfellowindeed!’

‘Iamgoingtoshutup,sir,’saidthewaiter,drawingnear.

And,seeingthatGagnieredidnotasmuchaslookround,hewenttoawakenthepettyretiredtradesman,whowasstilldozinginfrontofhissaucer.

‘Iamgoingtoshutup,sir.’

Thebelatedcustomerroseup,shivering,fumbledinthedarkcornerwherehewasseatedforhiswalking–stick,andwhenthewaiterhadpickeditupforhimfromundertheseatshewentaway.

AndGagniererambledon:

‘Berliozhasmingledliteraturewithhiswork.HeisthemusicalillustratorofShakespeare,

Virgil,andGoethe.Butwhatapainter!—theDelacroixofmusic,whomakessoundblazeforthamidsteffulgentcontrastsofcolour.Andwithalhehasromanticisminhisbrain,areligiousmysticismthatcarrieshimaway,anecstasythatsoarshigherthanmountainsummits.Abadbuilderofoperas,butmarvellousindetachedpieces,askingtoomuchattimesoftheorchestrawhichhetortures,havingpushedthepersonalityofinstrumentstoitsfurthestlimits;foreachinstrumentrepresentsacharactertohim.Ah!thatremarkofhisaboutclarionets:“Theytypifybelovedwomen.”Ah!ithasalwaysmadeashiverrundownmyback.AndChopin,sodandifiedinhisByronism;thedreamypoetofthosewhosufferfromneurosis!AndMendelssohn,thatfaultlesschiseller!aShakespeareindancingpumps,whose“songswithoutwords”aregemsforwomenofintellect!Andafterthat—afterthat—amanshouldgodownonhisknees.’

Therewasnowonlyonegas–lampalightjustabovehishead,andthewaiterstandingbehindhimstoodwaitingamidthegloomy,chillyvoidoftheroom.Gagniere’svoicehadcometoareverentialtremolo.Hewasreachingdevotionalfervourasheapproachedtheinnertabernacle,theholyofholies.

‘Oh!Schumann,typicalofdespair,thevoluptuousnessofdespair!Yes,theendofeverything,thelastsongofsaddenedpurityhoveringabovetheruinsoftheworld!Oh!Wagner,thegodinwhomcenturiesofmusicareincarnated!Hisworkistheimmenseark,alltheartsblendedinone;therealhumanityofthepersonagesatlastexpressed,theorchestraitselflivingapartthelifeofthedrama.Andwhatamassacreofconventionality,ofineptformulas!whatarevolutionaryemancipationamidtheinfinite!Theovertureof“Tannhauser,”ah!that’sthesublimehallelujahofthenewera.Firstofallcomesthechantofthepilgrims,thereligiousstrain,calm,deepandslowlythrobbing;thenthevoicesofthesirensgraduallydrownit;thevoluptuouspleasuresofVenus,fullofenervatingdelightandlanguor,growmoreandmoreimperiousanddisorderly;andsoonthesacredairgraduallyreturns,liketheaspiringvoiceofspace,andseizesholdofallotherstrainsandblendstheminonesupremeharmony,towaftthemawayonthewingsofatriumphalhymn!’

‘Iamgoingtoshutup,sir,’repeatedthewaiter.

Claude,whonolongerlistened,healsobeingabsorbedinhisownpassion,emptiedhisglassofbeerandcried:‘Eh,oldman,theyaregoingtoshutup.’

ThenGagnieretrembled.Apainfultwitchcameoverhisecstaticface,andheshiveredasifhehaddroppedfromthestars.Hegulpeddownhisbeer,andonceonthepavementoutside,afterpressinghiscompanion’shandinsilence,hewalkedoffintothegloom.

Itwasnearlytwoo’clockinthemorningwhenClaudereturnedtotheRuedeDouai.DuringtheweekthathehadbeenscouringParisanew,hehadeachtimebroughtbackwithhimthefeverishexcitementoftheday.Buthehadneverbeforereturnedsolate,withhisbrainsohotandsmoky.Christine,overcomewithfatigue,wasasleepunderthelamp,whichhadgoneout,herbrowrestingontheedgeofthetable.

VIIIATlastChristinegaveafinalstrokewithherfeather–broom,andtheyweresettled.ThestudiointheRuedeDouai,smallandinconvenient,hadonlyonelittleroom,andakitchen,asbigasacupboard,attachedtoit.Theywereobligedtotaketheirmealsinthestudio;theyhadtoliveinit,withthechildalwaystumblingabouttheirlegs.AndChristinehadadealoftroubleinmakingtheirfewstickssuffice,asshewishedtodo,inordertosaveexpense.Afterall,shewasobligedtobuyasecond–handbedstead;andyieldedtothetemptationofhavingsomewhitemuslincurtains,whichcosthersevensousthemetre.Thedenthenseemedcharmingtoher,andshebegantokeepitscrupulouslyclean,resolvingtodoeverythingherself,andtodispensewithaservant,aslivingwouldbeadifficultmatter.

DuringthefirstmonthsClaudelivedinever–increasingexcitement.Hisperegrinationsthroughthenoisystreets;hisfeverishdiscussionsontheoccasionofhisvisitstofriends;alltherageandalltheburningideashethusbroughthomefromoutofdoors,madehimholdforthaloudeveninhissleep.Parishadseizedholdofhimagain;andinthefullblazeofthatfurnace,asecondyouth,enthusiasticambitiontosee,do,andconquer,hadcomeuponhim.Neverhadhefeltsuchapassionforwork,suchhope,asifitsufficedforhimtostretchouthishandinordertocreatemasterpiecesthatshouldsethimintherightrank,whichwasthefirst.WhilecrossingParishediscoveredsubjectsforpictureseverywhere;thewholecity,withitsstreets,squares,bridges,andpanoramasoflife,suggestedimmensefrescoes,whichhe,however,alwaysfoundtoosmall,forhewasintoxicatedwiththethoughtofdoingsomethingcolossal.Thushereturnedhomequivering,hisbrainseethingwithprojects;andofaneveningthrewoffsketchesonbitsofpaper,inthelamp–light,withoutbeingabletodecidebywhatheoughttobegintheseriesofgrandproductionsthathedreamtabout.

Oneseriousobstaclewasthesmallnessofhisstudio.IfhehadonlyhadtheoldgarretoftheQuaideBourbon,oreventhehugedining–roomofBennecourt!Butwhatcouldhedointhatoblongstripofspace,thatkindofpassage,whichthelandlordofthehouseimpudentlylettopaintersforfourhundredfrancsayear,afterroofingitinwithglass?Theworstwasthattheslopingglazedrooflookedtothenorth,betweentwohighwalls,andonlyadmittedagreenishcellar–likelight.Hewasthereforeobligedtopostponehisambitiousprojects,andhedecidedtobeginwithaverage–sizedcanvases,wiselysayingtohimselfthatthedimensionsofapicturearenotapropertestofanartist’sgenius.

Themomentseemedtohimfavourableforthesuccessofacourageousartistwho,amidstthebreakingupoftheoldschools,wouldatlengthbringsomeoriginalityandsincerityintohiswork.Theformulasofrecenttimeswerealreadyshaken.Delacroixhaddiedwithoutleavinganydisciples.Courbethadbarelyafewclumsyimitatorsbehindhim;theirbestpieceswouldmerelybecomesomanymuseumpictures,blackenedbyage,tokensonlyoftheartofacertainperiod.Itseemedeasytoforeseethenewformulathatwouldspringfromtheirs,thatrushofsunshine,thatlimpiddawnwhichwasrisinginnewworksunderthenascentinfluenceofthe‘openair’school.Itwasundeniable;thoselight–

tonedpaintingsoverwhichpeoplehadlaughedsomuchattheSalonoftheRejectedweresecretlyinfluencingmanypainters,andgraduallybrighteningeverypalette.Nobody,asyet,admittedit,butthefirstblowhadbeendealt,andanevolutionwasbeginning,whichbecamemoreperceptibleateachsucceedingSalon.Andwhatastrokeitwouldbeif,amidsttheunconsciouscopiesofimpotentessayists,amidstthetimidartfulattemptsoftricksters,amasterweresuddenlytorevealhimself,givingbodytothenewformulabydintofaudacityandpower,withoutcompromise,showingitsuchasitshouldbe,substantial,entire,sothatitmightbecomethetruthoftheendofthecentury!

Inthatfirsthourofpassionandhope,Claude,usuallysoharassedbydoubts,believedinhisgenius.Henolongerexperiencedanyofthosecrises,theanguishofwhichhaddrivenhimfordaysintothestreetsinquestofhisvanishedcourage.Afeverstiffenedhim,heworkedonwiththeblindobstinacyofanartistwhodivesintohisentrails,todragtherefromthefruitthattortureshim.Hislongrestinthecountryhadendowedhimwithsingularfreshnessofvisualperception,andjoyousdelightinexecution;heseemedtohavebeenbornanewtohisart,andendowedwithafacilityandbalanceofpowerhehadneverhithertopossessed.Healsofeltcertainofprogress,andexperiencedgreatsatisfactionatsomesuccessfulbitsofwork,inwhichhisformersterileeffortsatlastculminated.AshehadsaidatBennecourt,hehadgotholdofhis‘openair,’thatcarollinggaietyoftintswhichastonishedhiscomradeswhentheycametoseehim.Theyalladmired,convincedthathewouldonlyhavetoshowhisworktotakeaveryhighplacewithit,suchwasitsindividualityofstyle,forthefirsttimeshowingnaturefloodedwithreallight,amidalltheplayofreflectionsandtheconstantvariationsofcolours.

Thus,forthreeyears,Claudestruggledon,withoutweakening,spurredtofurthereffortsbyeachrebuff,abandoningnoughtofhisideas,butmarchingstraightbeforehim,withallthevigouroffaith.

DuringthefirstyearhewentforthamidtheDecembersnowstoplacehimselfforfourhoursadaybehindtheheightsofMontmartre,atthecornerofapatchofwastelandwhenceasabackgroundhepaintedsomemiserable,low,tumble–downbuildings,overtoppedbyfactorychimneys,whilstintheforeground,amidstthesnow,hesetagirlandaraggedstreetroughdevouringstolenapples.Hisobstinacyinpaintingfromnaturegreatlycomplicatedhiswork,andgaverisetoalmostinsuperabledifficulties.However,hefinishedthispictureoutofdoors;hemerelycleanedandtoucheditupabitinhisstudio.Whenthecanvaswasplacedbeneaththewandaylightoftheglazedroof,hehimselfwasstartledbyitsbrutality.Itshowedlikeascenebeheldthroughadoorwayopenonthestreet.Thesnowblindedone.Thetwofigures,ofamuddygreyintint,stoodout,lamentable.Heatoncefeltthatsuchapicturewouldnotbeaccepted,buthedidnottrytosoftenit;hesentittotheSalon,allthesame.Afterswearingthathewouldneveragaintrytoexhibit,henowheldtheviewthatoneshouldalwayspresentsomethingtothehangingcommitteeifmerelytoaccentuateitswrong–doing.Besides,headmittedtheutilityoftheSalon,theonlybattlefieldonwhichanartistmightcometotheforeatonestroke.Thehangingcommitteerefusedhispicture.

ThesecondyearClaudesoughtacontrast.HeselectedabitofthepublicgardenofBatignollesinMay;inthebackgroundweresomelargechestnuttreescastingtheirshadearoundacornerofgreenswardandseveralsix–storiedhouses;whileinfront,onaseatofa

crudegreenhue,somenursesandpettycitsoftheneighbourhoodsatinalinewatchingthreelittlegirlsmakingsandpies.Whenpermissiontopainttherehadbeenobtained,hehadneededsomeheroismtobringhisworktoasuccessfulissueamidthebanteringcrowd.Atlasthemadeuphismindtogothereatfiveinthemorning,inordertopaintinthebackground;reservingthefigures,hecontentedhimselfwithmakingmeresketchesofthemfromnature,andfinishingtheminhisstudio.Thistimehispictureseemedtohimlesscrude;ithadacquiredsomeofthewan,softenedlightwhichdescendedthroughtheglassroof.Hethoughthispictureaccepted,forallhisfriendspronouncedittobeamasterpiece,andwentaboutsayingthatitwouldrevolutionisetheSalon.Therewasstupefactionandindignationwhenafreshrefusalofthehangingcommitteewasrumoured.Thecommittee’sintentionscouldnotbedenied:itwasaquestionofsystematicallystranglinganoriginalartist.He,afterhisfirstburstofpassion,ventedallhisangeruponhiswork,whichhestigmatisedasfalse,dishonest,andexecrable.Itwasawell–deservedlesson,whichheshouldremember:oughthetohaverelapsedintothatcellar–likestudiolight?Washegoingtoreverttothefilthycookingofimaginaryfigures?Whenthepicturecameback,hetookaknifeandrippeditfromtoptobottom.

Andsoduringthethirdyearheobstinatelytoiledonaworkofrevolt.Hewantedtheblazingsun,thatParissunwhich,oncertaindays,turnsthepavementtoawhiteheatinthedazzlingreflectionfromthehousefrontages.Nowhereisithotter;evenpeoplefromburningclimesmoptheirfaces;youwouldsayyouwereinsomeregionofAfricabeneaththeheavilyrainingglowofaskyonfire.ThesubjectClaudechosewasacornerofthePlaceduCarrousel,atoneo’clockintheafternoon,whenthesunraysfallvertically.Acabwasjoltingalong,itsdriverhalfasleep,itshorsesteaming,withdroopinghead,vagueamidthethrobbingheat.Thepassers–byseemed,asitwere,intoxicated,withtheoneexceptionofayoungwoman,who,rosyandgayunderherparasol,walkedonwithaneasyqueen–likestep,asifthefieryelementwereherpropersphere.Butwhatespeciallyrenderedthispictureterriblewasanewinterpretationoftheeffectsoflight,averyaccuratedecompositionofthesunrays,whichrancountertoallthehabitsofeyesight,byemphasisingblues,yellowsandreds,wherenobodyhadbeenaccustomedtoseeany.InthebackgroundtheTuileriesvanishedinagoldenshimmer;thepaving–stonesbled,sotosay;thefigureswereonlysomanyindications,sombrepatcheseatenintobythevividglare.Thistimehiscomrades,whilestillpraising,lookedembarrassed,allseizedwiththesameapprehensions.Suchpaintingcouldonlyleadtomartyrdom.He,amidsttheirpraises,understoodwellenoughtherupturethatwastakingplace,andwhenthehangingcommitteehadoncemoreclosedtheSalonagainsthim,hedolorouslyexclaimed,inamomentoflucidity:

‘Allright;it’sanunderstoodthing—I’lldieatthetask.’

However,althoughhisobstinatecourageseemedtoincrease,henowandthengraduallyrelapsedintohisformerdoubts,consumedbythestrugglehewaswagingwithnature.Everycanvasthatcamebacktohimseemedbadtohim—aboveallincomplete,notrealisingwhathehadaimedat.Itwasthisideaofimpotencethatexasperatedhimevenmorethantherefusalsofthehangingcommittee.Nodoubthedidnotforgivethelatter;hisworks,eveninanembryostate,wereahundredtimesbetterthanallthetrashwhichwasaccepted.Butwhatsufferinghefeltatbeingeverunabletoshowhimselfinallhisstrength,insuchamaster–pieceashecouldnotbringhisgeniustoyield!Therewere

alwayssomesuperbbitsinhispaintings.Hefeltsatisfiedwiththis,that,andtheother.Why,then,weretheresuddenvoids?Whywerethereinferiorbits,whichhedidnotperceivewhilehewasatwork,butwhichafterwardsutterlykilledthepicturelikeineffaceabledefects?Andhefeltquiteunabletomakeanycorrections;atcertainmomentsawallroseup,aninsuperableobstacle,beyondwhichhewasforbiddentoventure.Ifhetouchedupthepartthatdispleasedhimascoreoftimes,soascoreoftimesdidheaggravatetheevil,tilleverythingbecamequitemuddledandmessy.

Hegrewanxious,andfailedtoseethingsclearly;hisbrushrefusedtoobeyhim,andhiswillwasparalysed.Wasithishandsorhiseyesthatceasedtobelongtohimamidthoseprogressiveattacksofthehereditarydisorderthathadalreadymadehimanxious?Thoseattacksbecamemorefrequent;heoncemorelapsedintohorribleweeks,wearinghimselfout,oscillatingbetwixtuncertaintyandhope;andhisonlysupportduringthoseterriblehours,whichhespentinadesperatehand–to–handstrugglewithhisrebelliouswork,wastheconsolingdreamofhisfuturemasterpiece,theonewithwhichhewouldatlastbefullysatisfied,inpaintingwhichhishandswouldshowalltheenergyanddeftnessoftruecreativeskill.Bysomeever–recurringphenomenon,hislongingtocreateoutstrippedthequicknessofhisfingers;heneverworkedatonepicturewithoutplanningtheonethatwastofollow.Thenallthatremainedtohimwasaneagerdesiretoridhimselfoftheworkonwhichhewasengaged,foritbroughthimtorture;nodoubtitwouldbegoodfornothing;hewasstillmakingfatalconcessions,havingrecoursetotrickery,toeverythingthatatrueartistshouldbanishfromhisconscience.Butwhathemeanttodoafterthat—ah!whathemeanttodo—hebehelditsuperbandheroic,aboveattackandindestructible.Allthiswastheeverlastingmiragethatgoadsonthecondemneddisciplesofart,afalsehoodthatcomesinaspiritoftendernessandcompassion,andwithoutwhichproductionwouldbecomeimpossibletothosewhodieoftheirfailuretocreatelife.

Inadditiontothoseconstantlyrenewedstruggleswithhimself,Claude’smaterialdifficultiesnowincreased.Wasitnotenoughthathecouldnotgivebirthtowhathefeltexistingwithinhim?Musthealsobattlewithevery–daycares?Thoughherefusedtoadmitit,paintingfromnatureintheopenairbecameimpossiblewhenapicturewasbeyondacertainsize.Howcouldhesettlehimselfinthestreetsamidstthecrowd?—howobtainfromeachpersonthenecessarynumberofsittings?Thatsortofpaintingmustevidentlybeconfinedtocertaindeterminedsubjects,landscapes,smallcornersofthecity,inwhichthefigureswouldbebutsomanysilhouettes,paintedinafterwards.Therewerealsoathousandandonedifficultiesconnectedwiththeweather;thewindwhichthreatenedtocarryofftheeasel,therainwhichobligedonetointerruptone’swork.OnsuchdaysClaudecamehomeinarage,shakinghisfistattheskyandaccusingnatureofresistinghiminorderthathemightnottakeandvanquishher.Healsocomplainedbitterlyofbeingpoor;forhisdreamwastohaveamovablestudio,avehicleinParis,aboatontheSeine,inbothofwhichhewouldhavelivedlikeanartisticgipsy.Butnothingcametohisaid,everythingconspiredagainsthiswork.

AndChristinesufferedwithClaude.Shehadsharedhishopesverybravely,brighteningthestudiowithherhousewifelyactivity;butnowshesatdown,discouraged,whenshesawhimpowerless.Ateachpicturewhichwasrefusedshedisplayedstilldeepergrief,hurtinherwomanlyself–love,takingthatprideinsuccesswhichallwomenhave.Thepainter’sbitternesssouredheralso;sheenteredintohisfeelingsandpassions,identified

herselfwithhistastes,defendedhispainting,whichhadbecome,asitwere,partofherself,theonegreatconcernoftheirlives—indeed,theonlyimportantonehenceforth,sinceitwastheonewhencesheexpectedallherhappiness.Sheunderstoodwellenoughthatartrobbedhermoreandmoreofherlovereachday,buttherealstrugglebetweenherselfandarthadnotyetbegun.Forthetimesheyielded,andletherselfbecarriedawaywithClaude,sothattheymightbebutone—oneonlyintheself–sameeffort.Fromthatpartialabdicationofselftheresprang,however,asadness,adreadofwhatmightbeinstoreforherlateron.Everynowandthenashudderchilledhertotheveryheart.Shefeltherselfgrowingold,whileintensemelancholyupsether,anunreasoninglongingtoweep,whichshesatisfiedinthegloomystudioforhourstogether,whenshewasalonethere.

Atthatperiodherheartexpanded,asitwere,andamothersprangfromthelovingwoman.Thatmotherlyfeelingforherbigartistchildwasmadeupofallthevagueinfinitepitywhichfilledherwithtenderness,oftheillogicalfitsofweaknessintowhichshesawhimfalleachhour,oftheconstantpardonswhichshewasobligedtogranthim.Hewasbeginningtomakeherunhappy,hiscaresseswerefewandfarbetween,alookofwearinessconstantlyoverspreadhisfeatures.Howcouldshelovehimthenifnotwiththatotheraffectionofeverymoment,remaininginadorationbeforehim,andunceasinglysacrificingherself?Inherinmostbeinginsatiablepassionstilllingered;shewasstillthesensuouswomanwiththicklipssetinobstinatelyprominentjaws.Yettherewasagentlemelancholy,inbeingmerelyamothertohim,intryingtomakehimhappyamidthatlifeoftheirswhichnowwasspoilt.

LittleJacqueswastheonlyonetosufferfromthattransferoftenderness.Sheneglectedhimmore;theman,hisfather,becameherchild,andthepoorlittlefellowremainedasmeretestimonyoftheirgreatpassionofyore.Asshesawhimgrowup,andnolongerrequiresomuchcare,shebegantosacrificehim,withoutintentionalharshness,butmerelybecauseshefeltlikethat.Atmeal–timessheonlygavehimtheinferiorbits;thecosiestnooknearthestovewasnotforhislittlechair;ifeverthefearofanaccidentmadehertremblenowandthen,herfirstcry,herfirstprotectingmovementwasnotforherhelplesschild.Sheeverrelegatedhimtothebackground,suppressedhim,asitwere:‘Jacques,bequiet;youtireyourfather.Jacques,keepstill;don’tyouseethatyourfatherisatwork?’

TheurchinsufferedfrombeingcoopedupinParis.He,whohadhadthewholecountry–sidetorollaboutin,feltstifledinthenarrowspacewherehenowhadtokeepquiet.Hisrosycheeksbecamepale,hegrewuppuny,serious,likealittleman,witheyeswhichstaredatthingsinwonder.Hewasfivebynow,andhisheadbyasingularphenomenonhadbecomedisproportionatelylarge,insuchwiseastomakehisfathersay,‘Hehasagreatman’snut!’Butthechild’sintelligenceseemed,onthecontrary,todecreaseinproportionashisskullbecamelarger.Verygentleandtimid,hebecameabsorbedinthoughtforhours,incapableofansweringaquestion.Andwhenheemergedfromthatstateofimmobilityhehadmadfitsofshoutingandjumping,likeayounganimalgivingreintoinstinct.Atsuchtimeswarnings‘tokeepquiet’raineduponhim,forhismotherfailedtounderstandhissuddenoutbursts,andbecameuneasyatseeingthefathergrowirritatedashesatbeforehiseasel.Gettingcrossherself,shewouldthenhastilyseatthelittlefellowinhiscorneragain.Quietedallatonce,givingthestartledshudderofonewhohasbeentooabruptlyawakened,thechildwouldafteratimedozeoffwithhiseyeswideopen,socarelessofenjoyinglifethathistoys,corks,pictures,andemptycolour–tubes

droppedlistlesslyfromhishands.Christinehadalreadytriedtoteachhimhisalphabet,buthehadcriedandstruggled,sotheyhaddecidedtowaitanotheryearortwobeforesendinghimtoschool,wherehismasterswouldknowhowtomakehimlearn.

Christineatlastbegantogrowfrightenedattheprospectofimpendingmisery.InParis,withthatgrowingchildbesidethem,livingprovedexpensive,andtheendofeachmonthbecameterrible,despitehereffortstosaveineverydirection.TheyhadnothingcertainbutClaude’sthousandfrancsayear;andhowcouldtheyliveonfiftyfrancsamonth,whichwasallthatwaslefttothemafterdeductingfourhundredfrancsfortherent?Atfirsttheyhadgotoutofembarrassment,thankstothesaleofafewpictures,ClaudehavingfoundGagniere’soldamateur,oneofthosedetestedbourgeoiswhopossesstheardentsoulsofartists,despitethemonomaniacalhabitsinwhichtheyareconfined.Thisone,M.Hue,aretiredchiefclerkinapublicdepartment,wasunfortunatelynotrichenoughtobealwaysbuying,andhecouldonlybewailthepurblindnessofthepublic,whichoncemoreallowedageniustodieofstarvation;forhehimself,convinced,struckbygraceatthefirstglance,hadselectedClaude’scrudestworks,whichhehungbythesideofhisDelacroix,predictingequalfortuneforthem.TheworstwasthatPapaMalgrashadjustretiredaftermakinghisfortune.Itwasbutamodestcompetenceafterall,anincomeofabouttenthousandfrancs,uponwhichhehaddecidedtoliveinalittlehouseatBoisColombes,likethecarefulmanhewas.

ItwashighlyamusingtohearhimspeakofthefamousNaudet,fullofdisdainforthemillionsturnedoverbythatspeculator,‘millionsthatwouldsomedayfalluponhisnose,’saidMalgras.Claude,havingcasuallymethim,onlysucceededinsellinghimalastpicture,oneofhissketchesfromthenudemadeattheBoutinstudio,thatsuperbstudyofawoman’strunkwhichtheerstwhiledealerhadnotbeenabletoseeafreshwithoutfeelingarevivalofhisoldpassionforit.Somiserywasimminent;outletswereclosinginsteadofnewonesopening;disquietingrumourswerebeginningtocirculateconcerningtheyoungpainter’sworks,soconstantlyrejectedattheSalon;andbesides,Claude’sstyleofart,sorevolutionaryandimperfect,inwhichthestartledeyefoundnoughtofadmittedconventionality,wouldofitselfhavesufficedtodriveawaywealthybuyers.Oneevening,beingunabletosettlehisbillathiscolourshop,thepainterhadexclaimedthathewouldliveuponthecapitalofhisincomeratherthanlowerhimselftothedegradingproductionoftradepictures.ButChristinehadviolentlyopposedsuchanextrememeasure;shewouldretrenchstillfurther;inshort,shepreferredanythingtosuchmadness,whichwouldendbythrowingthemintothestreetswithoutevenbreadtoeat.

AftertherejectionofClaude’sthirdpicture,thesummerprovedsowonderfullyfinethatthepainterseemedtoderivenewstrengthfromit.Therewasnotacloud;limpidlightstreameddayafterdayuponthegiantactivityofParis.Claudehadresumedhisperegrinationsthroughthecity,determinedtofindamasterstroke,asheexpressedit,somethinghuge,somethingdecisive,hedidnotexactlyknowwhat.Septembercame,andstillhehadfoundnothingthatsatisfiedhim;hesimplywentmadforaweekaboutoneoranothersubject,andthendeclaredthatitwasnotthethingafterall.Hislifewasspentinconstantexcitement;hewaseveronthewatch,onthepointofsettinghishandontherealisationofhisdream,whichalwaysflewaway.Inreality,beneathhisintractablerealismlaythesuperstitionofanervouswoman;hebelievedinoccultandcomplexinfluences;everything,luckorill–luck,mustdependupontheviewselected.

Oneafternoon—itwasoneofthelastfinedaysoftheseason—ClaudetookChristineoutwithhim,leavinglittleJacquesinthechargeofthedoorkeeper,akindoldwoman,aswastheirwontwhentheywantedtogoouttogether.ThatdaytheyoungpainterwaspossessedbyasuddenwhimtorambleaboutandrevisitinChristine’scompanythenooksbelovedinotherdays;andbehindthisdesireofhistherelurkedavaguehopethatshewouldbringhimluck.AndthustheywentasfarasthePontLouis–Philippe,andremainedforaquarterofanhourontheQuaidesOrmes,silent,leaningagainsttheparapet,andlookingattheoldHotelduMartoy,acrosstheSeine,wheretheyhadfirstlovedeachother.Then,stillwithoutsayingaword,theywenttheirformerround;theystartedalongthequays,undertheplanetrees,seeingthepastriseupbeforethemateverystep.Everythingspreadoutagain:thebridgeswiththeirarchesopeninguponthesheenywater;theCite,envelopedinshade,abovewhichrosetheflavescenttowersofNotre–Dame;thegreatcurveoftherightbankfloodedwithsunlight,andendingintheindistinctsilhouetteofthePavillondeFlore,togetherwiththebroadavenues,themonumentsandedificesonbothbanks,andallthelifeoftheriver,thefloatingwash–houses,thebaths,andthelighters.

Asofold,theorbinitsdeclinefollowedthem,seeminglyrollingalongthedistanthousetops,andassumingacrescentshape,asitappearedfrombehindthedomeoftheInstitute.Therewasadazzlingsunset,theyhadneverbeheldamoremagnificentone,suchamajesticdescentamidsttinycloudletsthatchangedintopurplenetwork,betweenthemeshesofwhichashowerofgoldescaped.Butofthepastthatthusroseupbeforetheireyestherecametothemnoughtbutinvinciblesadness—asensationthatthingsescapedthem,andthatitwasimpossibleforthemtoretracetheirwayupstreamandlivetheirlifeoveragain.Allthoseoldstonesremainedcold.Theconstantcurrentbeneaththebridges,thewaterthathadeverflowedonwardandonward,seemedtohaveborneawaysomethingoftheirownselves,thedelightofearlydesireandthejoyfulnessofhope.Nowthattheybelongedtooneanother,theynolongertastedthesimplehappinessbornoffeelingthewarmpressureoftheirarmsastheystrolledonslowly,envelopedbythemightyvitalityofParis.

OnreachingthePontdesSaints–Peres,Claude,insheerdespair,stoppedshort.HehadrelinquishedChristine’sarm,andhadturnedhisfacetowardsthepointoftheCite.Shenodoubtfelttheseverancethatwastakingplaceandbecameverysad.Seeingthathelingeredthereobliviously,shewishedtoregainherholduponhim.

‘Mydear,’saidshe,‘letusgohome;it’stime.Jacqueswillbewaitingforus,youknow.’

Buthewenthalfwayacrossthebridge,andshehadtofollowhim.Thenoncemoreheremainedmotionless,withhiseyesstillfixedontheCite,onthatislandwhicheverrodeatanchor,thecradleandheartofParis,whereforcenturiesallthebloodofherarterieshadconvergedamidtheconstantgrowthoffaubourgsinvadingtheplain.AndaglowcameoverClaude’sface,hiseyessparkled,andatlasthemadeasweepinggesture:

‘Look!Look!’

IntheimmediateforegroundbeneaththemwastheportofSt.Nicolas,withthelowshantiesservingasofficesfortheinspectorsofnavigation,andthelargepavedriver–bankslopingdown,litteredwithpilesofsand,barrels,andsacks,andedgedwitharowoflighters,stillfull,inwhichbusylumpersswarmedbeneaththegiganticarmofaniron

crane.Thenontheothersideoftheriver,aboveacoldswimming–bath,resoundingwiththeshoutsofthelastbathersoftheseason,thestripsofgreylinenthatservedasaroofingflappedinthewind.Inthemiddle,theopenstreamflowedoninrippling,greenishwaveletstippedhereandtherewithwhite,blue,andpink.AndthentherecamethePontdesArts,standingback,highabovethewateronitsirongirders,likeblacklace–work,andanimatedbyaceaselessprocessionoffoot–passengers,wholookedlikeantscareeringoverthenarrowlineofthehorizontalplane.Below,theSeineflowedawaytothefardistance;yousawtheoldarchesofthePont–Neuf,brownywithstone–rust;ontheleft,asfarastheIsleofSt.Louis,cameamirror–likegap;andtheotherarmoftherivercurvedsharply,thelockgatesoftheMintshuttingouttheviewwithabaroffoam.AlongthePont–Neufpassedbigyellowomnibuses,motleyvehiclesofallkinds,withthemechanicalregularityofsomanychildren’stoys.Thewholeofthebackgroundwasinframedwithintheperspectiveofthetwobanks;ontherightwerehousesonthequays,partlyhiddenbyaclusterofloftytrees,frombehindwhichonthehorizonthereemergedacorneroftheHoteldeVilla,togetherwiththesquareclocktowerofSt.Gervais,bothlookingasindistinctasiftheyhadstoodfarawayinthesuburbs.AndontheleftbanktherewasawingoftheInstitute,theflatfrontageoftheMint,andyetanotherenfiladeoftrees.

Butthecentreoftheimmensepicture,thatwhichrosemostprominentlyfromthestreamandsoaredtothesky,wastheCite,showingliketheprowofanantiquevessel,everburnishedbythesettingsun.Downbelow,thepoplarsonthestripofgroundthatjoinsthetwosectionsofthePont–NeufhidthestatueofHenriIV.withadensemassofgreenfoliage.Higherup,thesunsetthetwolinesoffrontagesincontrast,wrappingthegreybuildingsoftheQuaidel’Horlogeinshade,andilluminingwithablazethoseoftheQuaidesOrfevres,rowsofirregularhouseswhichstoodoutsoclearlythatonedistinguishedthesmallestdetails,theshops,thesignboards,eventhecurtainsatthewindows.Higherup,amidthejaggedoutlinesofchimneystacks,behindaslantingchess–boardofsmallerroofs,thepepper–casterturretsofthePalaisdeJusticeandthegarretsofthePrefectureofPolicedisplayedsheetsofslate,intersectedbyacolossaladvertisementpaintedinblueuponawall,withgiganticletterswhich,visibletoallParis,seemedlikesomeefflorescenceofthefeverishlifeofmoderntimessproutingonthecity’sbrow.Higher,higherstill,betwixtthetwintowersofNotre–Dame,ofthecolourofoldgold,twoarrowsdartedupwards,thespireofthecathedralitself,andtotheleftthatoftheSainte–Chapelle,bothsoelegantlyslimthattheyseemedtoquiverinthebreeze,asiftheyhadbeentheproudtopmastsoftheancientvesselrisingintothebrightnessoftheopensky.

‘Areyoucoming,dear?’askedChristine,gently.

Claudedidnotlistentoher;this,theheartofParis,hadtakenfullpossessionofhim.Thesplendideveningseemedtowidenthehorizon.Therewerepatchesofvividlight,andofclearlydefinedshadow;therewasabrightnessintheprecisionofeachdetail,atransparencyintheair,whichthrobbedwithgladness.Andtheriverlife,theturmoilofthequays,allthepeople,streamingalongthestreets,rollingoverthebridges,arrivingfromeverysideofthathugecauldron,Paris,steamedthereinvisiblebillows,withaquiverthatwasapparentinthesunlight.Therewasalightbreeze,highaloftaflightofsmallcloudletscrossedthepalingazuresky,andonecouldhearaslowbutmightypalpitation,asifthesoulofParisheredweltarounditscradle.

ButChristine,frightenedatseeingClaudesoabsorbed,andseizedherselfwithakindofreligiousawe,tookholdofhisarmanddraggedhimaway,asifshehadfeltthatsomegreatdangerwasthreateninghim.

‘Letusgohome.Youaredoingyourselfharm.Iwanttogetback.’

Athertouchhestartedlikeamandisturbedinsleep.Then,turninghisheadtotakealastlook,hemuttered:‘Ah!heavens!Ah!heavens,howbeautiful!’

Heallowedhimselftobeledaway.Butthroughouttheevening,firstatdinner,afterwardsbesidethestove,anduntilhewenttobed,heremainedlikeonedazed,sodeepinhiscogitationsthathedidnotutterhalfadozensentences.AndChristine,failingtodrawfromhimanyanswertoherquestions,atlastbecamesilentalso.Shelookedathimanxiously;wasittheapproachofsomeseriousillness,hadheinhaledsomebadairwhilststandingmidwayacrossthebridgeyonder?Hiseyesstaredvaguelyintospace,hisfaceflushedasifwithsomeinnerstraining.Onewouldhavethoughtitthemutetravailofgermination,asifsomethingwerespringingintolifewithinhim.

Thenextmorning,immediatelyafterbreakfast,hesetoff,andChristinespentaverysorrowfulday,foralthoughshehadbecomemoreeasyinmindonhearinghimwhistlesomeofhisoldsoutherntunesashegotup,shewasworriedbyanothermatter,whichshehadnotmentionedtohimforfearofdampinghisspiritsagain.Thatdaytheywouldforthefirsttimelackeverything;awholeweekseparatedthemfromthedatewhentheirlittleincomewouldfalldue,andshehadspentherlastcopperthatmorning.Shehadnothingleftfortheevening,noteventhewherewithaltobuyaloaf.Towhomcouldsheapply?Howcouldshemanagetohidethetruthanylongerfromhimwhenhecamehomehungry?ShemadeuphermindtopledgetheblacksilkdresswhichMadameVanzadehadformerlygivenher,butitwaswithaheavyheart;shetrembledwithfearandshameattheideaofthepawnshop,thatfamiliarresortofthepoorwhichshehadneverasyetentered.Andshewastorturedbysuchapprehensionaboutthefuture,thatfromthetenfrancswhichwerelenthersheonlytookenoughtomakeasorrelsoupandastewofpotatoes.Oncomingoutofthepawn–office,ameetingwithsomebodysheknewhadgivenherthefinishingstroke.

Asithappened,Claudecamehomeverylate,gesticulatingmerrily,andhiseyesverybright,asifhewereexcitedbysomesecretjoy;hewasveryhungry,andgrumbledbecausetheclothwasnotlaid.Then,havingsatdownbetweenChristineandlittleJacques,heswallowedhissoupanddevouredaplatefulofpotatoes.

‘Isthatall?’heasked,whenhehadfinished.‘Youmightaswellhaveaddedascrapofmeat.Didyouhavetobuysomebootsagain?’

Shestammered,notdaringtotellhimthetruth,buthurtatheartbythisinjustice.He,however,wentonchaffingheraboutthecoppersshejuggledawaytobuyherselfthingswith;andgettingmoreandmoreexcited,amidtheegotismoffeelingswhichheseeminglywishedtokeeptohimself,hesuddenlyflewoutatJacques.

‘Holdyournoise,youbrat!—youdriveonemad.’

Thechild,forgettingallabouthisdinner,hadbeentappingtheedgeofhisplatewithhisspoon,hiseyesfullofmirthfuldelightatthismusic.

‘Jacques,bequiet,’scoldinglysaidhismother,inherturn.‘Letyourfatherhavehisdinnerinpeace.’

Thenthelittleone,abashed,atoncebecameveryquiet,andrelapsedintogloomystillness,withhislustrelesseyesfixedonhispotatoes,which,however,hedidnoteat.

Claudemadeashowofstuffinghimselfwithcheese,whileChristine,quitegrieved,offeredtofetchsomecoldmeatfromahamandbeefshop;buthedeclined,andpreventedhergoingbywordsthatpainedherstillmore.Then,thetablehavingbeencleared,theyallsatroundthelampfortheevening,shesewing,thelittleoneturningoverapicture–bookinsilence,andClaudedrummingonthetablewithhisfingers,hismindthewhilewanderingbacktothespotwhencehehadcome.Suddenlyherose,satdownagainwithasheetofpaperandapencil,andbegansketchingrapidly,inthevividcircleoflightthatfellfromunderthelamp–shade.Andsuchwashislongingtogiveoutwardexpressiontothetumultuousideasbeatinginhisskull,thatsoonthissketchdidnotsufficeforhisrelief.Onthecontrary,itgoadedhimon,andhefinishedbyunburtheninghismindinafloodofwords.Hewouldhaveshoutedtothewalls;andifheaddressedhimselftohiswifeitwasbecauseshehappenedtobethere.

‘Look,that’swhatwesawyesterday.It’smagnificent.Ispentthreehoursthereto–day.I’vegotholdofwhatIwant—somethingwonderful,somethingthat’llknockeverythingelsetopieces.Justlook!Istationmyselfunderthebridge;intheimmediateforegroundIhavethePortofSt.Nicolas,withitscrane,itslighterswhicharebeingunloaded,anditscrowdoflabourers.Doyouseetheidea—it’sParisatwork—allthosebrawnyfellowsdisplayingtheirbarearmsandchests?ThenontheothersideIhavetheswimming–baths—Parisatplay—andsomeskiffthere,nodoubt,tooccupythecentreofthecomposition;butofthatIamnotasyetcertain.Imustfeelmyway.Asamatterofcourse,theSeinewillbeinthemiddle,broad,immense.’

Whiletalking,hekeptonindicatingoutlineswithhispencil,thickeninghisstrokesoverandoveragain,andtearingthepaperinhisveryenergy.She,inordertopleasehim,bentoverthesketch,pretendingtogrowveryinterestedinhisexplanations.Buttherewassuchalabyrinthoflines,suchaconfusionofsummarydetails,thatshefailedtodistinguishanything.

‘Youarefollowingme,aren’tyou?’

‘Yes,yes,verybeautifulindeed.’

‘ThenIhavethebackground,thetwoarmsoftherivetwiththeirquays,theCite,risinguptriumphantlyinthecentre,andstandingoutagainstthesky.Ah!thatbackground,whatamarvel!Peopleseeiteveryday,passbeforeitwithoutstopping;butittakesholdofoneallthesame;one’sadmirationaccumulates,andonefineafternoonitburstsforth.Nothingintheworldcanbegrander;itisParisherself,gloriousinthesunlight.Ah!whatafoolIwasnottothinkofitbefore!HowmanytimesIhavelookedatitwithoutseeing!However,Istumbledonitafterthatramblealongthequays!And,doyouremember,there’sadashofshadowonthatside;whileherethesunraysfallquitestraight.Thetowersareyonder;thespireoftheSainte–Chapelletapersupward,asslimasaneedlepointingtothesky.Butno,it’smoretotheright.Wait,I’llshowyou.’

Hebeganagain,neverwearying,butconstantlyretouchingthesketch,andadding

innumerablelittlecharacteristicdetailswhichhispainter’seyehadnoticed;heretheredsignboardofadistantshopvibratedinthelight;closerbywasagreenishbitoftheSeine,onwhosesurfacelargepatchesofoilseemedtobefloating;andthentherewasthedelicatetoneofatree,thegamutofgreyssuppliedbythehousefrontages,andtheluminouscastofthesky.Shecomplaisantlyapprovedofallhesaidandtriedtolookdelighted.

ButJacquesonceagainforgotwhathehadbeentold.Afterlongremainingsilentbeforehisbook,absorbedinthecontemplationofawood–cutdepictingablackcat,hebegantohumsomewordsofhisowncomposition:‘Oh,youprettycat;oh,youuglycat;oh,youpretty,uglycat,’andsoon,adinfinitum,everinthesamelugubriousmanner.

Claude,whowasmadefidgetybythebuzzingnoise,didnotatfirstunderstandwhatwasupsettinghim.Butafteratimethechild’sharassingphrasefellclearlyuponhisear.

‘Haven’tyoudoneworryinguswithyourcat?’heshoutedfuriously.

‘Holdyourtongue,Jacques,whenyourfatheristalking!’repeatedChristine.

Uponmyword,Idobelieveheisbecominganidiot.Justlookathishead,ifitisn’tlikeanidiot’s.It’sdreadful.Justsay;whatdoyoumeanbyyourprettyanduglycat?’

Thelittlefellow,turningpaleandwagginghisbighead,lookedstupid,andreplied:‘Don’tknow.’

Then,ashisfatherandmothergazedateachotherwithadiscouragedair,herestedhischeekontheopenpicture–book,andremainedlikethat,neitherstirringnorspeaking,butwithhiseyeswideopen.

Itwasgettinglate;Christinewantedtoputhimtobed,butClaudehadalreadyresumedhisexplanations.Henowtoldherthat,theverynextmorning,heshouldgoandmakeasketchonthespot,justinordertofixhisideas.And,asherattledon,hebegantotalkofbuyingasmallcampeasel,athinguponwhichhehadsethisheartformonths.Hekeptharpingonthesubject,andspokeofmoneymatterstillsheatlastbecameembarrassed,andendedbytellinghimofeverything—thelastcoppershehadspentthatmorning,andthesilkdressshehadpledgedinordertodinethatevening.Thereuponhebecameveryremorsefulandaffectionate;hekissedherandaskedherforgivenessforhavingcomplainedaboutthedinner.Shewouldexcusehim,surely;hewouldhavekilledfatherandmother,ashekeptonrepeating,whenthatconfoundedpaintinggotholdofhim.Asforthepawn–shop,itmadehimlaugh;hedefiedmisery.

‘Itellyouthatweareallright,’heexclaimed.‘Thatpicturemeanssuccess.’

Shekeptsilent,thinkingabouthermeetingofthemorning,whichshewishedtohidefromhim;butwithoutapparentcauseortransition,inthekindoftorporthathadcomeoverher,thewordsshewouldhavekeptbackroseinvinciblytoherlips.

‘MadameVanzadeisdead,’shesaid.

Helookedsurprised.Ah!really?Howdidshe,Christine,knowit?

‘Imettheoldman–servant.Oh,he’sagentlemanbynow,lookingverysprightly,inspiteofhisseventyyears.Ididnotknowhimagain.Itwashewhospoketome.Yes,shedied

sixweeksago.Hermillionshavegonetovariouscharities,withtheexceptionofanannuitytotheoldservants,uponwhichtheyarelivingsnuglylikepeopleofthemiddle–classes.’

Helookedather,andatlastmurmured,inasaddenedvoice:‘MypoorChristine,youareregrettingthingsnow,aren’tyou?Shewouldhavegivenyouamarriageportion,havefoundyouahusband!Itoldyousoindaysgoneby.Shewould,perhaps,haveleftyouallhermoney,andyouwouldn’tnowbestarvingwithacrazyfellowlikemyself.’

Shethenseemedtowakefromherdream.Shedrewherchairtohis,caughtholdofoneofhisarmsandnestledagainsthim,asifherwholebeingprotestedagainsthiswords:

‘Whatareyousaying?Oh!no;oh!no.Itwouldhavebeenshamefultohavethoughtofhermoney.Iwouldconfessittoyouifitwerethecase,andyouknowthatInevertelllies;butImyselfdon’tknowwhatcameovermewhenIheardthenews.Ifeltupsetandsaddened,sosadthatIimaginedeverythingwasoverforme.Itwasnodoubtremorse;yes,remorseathavingdesertedhersobrutally,poorinvalidthatshewas,thegoodoldsoulwhocalledmeherdaughter!Ibehavedverybadly,anditwon’tbringmeluck.Ah!don’tsay“No,”Ifeelitwellenough;henceforththere’sanendtoeverythingforme.’

Thenshewept,chokedbythoseconfusedregrets,thesignificanceofwhichshefailedtounderstand,regretsminglingwiththeonefeelingthatherlifewasspoilt,andthatshenowhadnothingbutunhappinessbeforeher.

‘Come,wipeyoureyes,’saidClaude,becomingaffectionateoncemore.‘Isitpossiblethatyou,whowerenevernervous,canconjureupchimerasandworryyourselfinthisway?Dashitall,weshallgetoutofourdifficulties!Firstofall,youknowthatitwasthroughyouthatIfoundthesubjectformypicture.Therecannotbemuchofacurseuponyou,sinceyoubringmeluck.’

Helaughed,andsheshookherhead,seeingwellenoughthathewantedtomakehersmile.Shewassufferingonaccountofhispicturealready;foronthebridgehehadcompletelyforgottenher,asifshehadceasedtobelongtohim!And,sincethepreviousnight,shehadrealisedthathewasfartherandfartherremovedfromher,aloneinaworldtowhichshecouldnotascend.Butsheallowedhimtosootheher,andtheyexchangedoneoftheirkissesofyore,beforerisingfromthetabletoretiretorest.

LittleJacqueshadheardnothing.Benumbedbyhisstillness,hehadfallenasleep,withhischeekonhispicture–book;andhisbighead,soheavyattimesthatitbenthisneck,lookedpaleinthelamplight.Poorlittleoffspringofgenius,which,whenitbegetsatall,sooftenbegetsidiocyorphysicalimperfection!WhenhismotherputhimtobedJacquesdidnotevenopenhiseyes.

ItwasonlyatthisperiodthattheideaofmarryingChristinecametoClaude.ThoughyieldingtotheadviceofSandoz,whoexpressedhissurpriseattheprolongationofanirregularsituationwhichnocircumstancesjustified,hemoreparticularlygavewaytoafeelingofpity,toadesiretoshowhimselfkindtohismistress,andtowinforgivenessforhisdelinquencies.Hehadseenhersosadoflate,souneasywithrespecttothefuture,thathedidnotknowhowtoreviveherspirits.Hehimselfwasgrowingsoured,andrelapsingintohisformerfitsofanger,treatingher,attimes,likeaservant,towhomoneflingsaweek’snotice.Beinghislawfulwife,shewould,nodoubt,feelherselfmoreinherrightful

home,andwouldsufferlessfromhisroughbehaviour.Sheherself,forthatmatter,hadneveragainspokenofmarriage.Sheseemedtocarenothingforearthlythings,butentirelyreposeduponhim;however,heunderstoodwellenoughthatitgrievedherthatshewasnotabletovisitatSandoz’s.Besides,theynolongerlivedamidthefreedomandsolitudeofthecountry;theywereinParis,withitsthousandandonepettyspites,everythingthatiscalculatedtowoundawomaninanirregularposition.Inreality,hehadnothingagainstmarriagesavehisoldprejudices,thoseofanartistwhotakeslifeashelists.Sincehewasnevertoleaveher,whynotaffordherthatpleasure?And,infact,whenhespoketoheraboutit,shegavealoudcryandthrewherarmsroundhisneck,surprisedatexperiencingsuchgreatemotion.Duringawholeweekitmadeherfeelthoroughlyhappy.Butherjoysubsidedlongbeforetheceremony.

Moreover,Claudedidnothurryoveranyoftheformalities,andtheyhadtowaitalongwhileforthenecessarypapers.Hecontinuedgettingthesketchesforhispicturetogether,andshe,likehimself,didnotseemintheleastimpatient.Whatwasthegood?Itwouldassuredlymakenodifferenceintheirlife.Theyhaddecidedtobemarriedmerelyatthemunicipaloffices,notinviewofdisplayinganycontemptforreligion,buttogettheaffairoverquicklyandsimply.Thatwouldsuffice.Thequestionofwitnessesembarrassedthemforamoment.Asshewasabsolutelyunacquaintedwithanybody,heselectedSandozandMahoudeautoactforher.ForamomenthehadthoughtofreplacingthelatterbyDubuche,butheneversawthearchitectnow,andhefearedtocompromisehim.He,Claude,wouldbecontentwithJoryandGagniere.Inthatwaytheaffairwouldpassoffamongfriends,andnobodywouldtalkofit.

Severalweekshadgoneby;theywereinDecember,andtheweatherprovedterriblycold.Onthedaybeforethewedding,althoughtheybarelyhadthirty–fivefrancsleftthem,theyagreedthattheycouldnotsendtheirwitnessesawaywithamereshakeofthehand;and,ratherthanhavealotoftroubleinthestudio,theydecidedtoofferthemlunchatasmallrestaurantontheBoulevarddeClichy,afterwhichtheywouldallgohome.

Inthemorning,whileChristinewastackingacollartoagreylinseygownwhich,withthecoquetryofwoman,shehadmadefortheoccasion,itoccurredtoClaude,whowasalreadywearinghisfrock–coatandkickinghisheelsimpatiently,togoandfetchMahoudeau,forthelatter,heasserted,wasquitecapableofforgettingallabouttheappointment.Sinceautumn,thesculptorhadbeenlivingatMontmartre,inasmallstudiointheRuedesTilleuls.Hehadmovedthitherinconsequenceofaseriesofaffairsthathadquiteupsethim.Firstofall,hehadbeenturnedoutofthefruiterer’sshopintheRueduCherche–Midifornotpayinghisrent;thenhadcomeadefiniterupturewithChaine,who,despairingofbeingabletolivebyhisbrush,hadrushedintocommercialenterprise,betakinghimselftoallthefairsaroundParisasthemanagerofakindof‘fortune’swheel’belongingtoawidow;whilelastofallhadcomethesuddenflightofMathilde,herherbalist’sbusinesssoldup,andsheherselfdisappearing,itseemed,withsomemysteriousadmirer.AtpresentMahoudeaulivedallbyhimselfingreatermiserythanever,onlyeatingwhenhesecuredajobatscrapingsomearchitecturalornaments,orpreparingworkforsomemoreprosperousfellow–sculptor.

‘Iamgoingtofetchhim,doyouhear?’ClauderepeatedtoChristine.‘Westillhaveacoupleofhoursbeforeus.And,iftheotherscome,makethemwait.We’llgotothe

municipalofficesalltogether.’

Onceoutside,Claudehurriedalonginthenippingcoldwhichloadedhismoustachewithicicles.Mahoudeau’sstudiowasattheendofaconglomerationoftenements—‘rents,’sotosay—andhehadtocrossanumberofsmallgardens,whitewithrime,andshowingthebleak,stiffmelancholyofcemeteries.Hecoulddistinguishhisfriend’splacefromafaronaccountofthecolossalplasterstatueofthe‘VintagingGirl,’theoncesuccessfulexhibitoftheSalon,forwhichtherehadnotbeensufficientspaceinthenarrowground–floorstudio.Thusitwasrottingoutintheopenlikesomuchrubbishshotfromacart,alamentablespectacle,weather–bitten,riddledbytherain’sbig,grimytears.Thekeywasinthedoor,soClaudewentin.

‘Hallo!haveyoucometofetchme?’saidMahoudeau,insurprise.‘I’veonlygotmyhattoputon.Butwaitabit,Iwasaskingmyselfwhetheritwouldn’tbebettertolightalittlefire.Iamuneasyaboutmywomanthere.’

Somewaterinabucketwasice–bound.Socoldwasthestudiothatitfrozeinsideashardasitdidoutofdoors,for,havingbeenpennilessforawholeweek,Mahoudeauhadgingerlyekedoutthelittlecoalremainingtohim,onlylightingthestoveforanhourortwoofamorning.Hisstudiowasakindoftragiccavern,comparedwithwhichtheshopofformerdaysevokedreminiscencesofsnugcomfort,suchwasthetomb–likechillthatfellonone’sshouldersfromthecrevicedceilingandthebarewalls.Inthevariouscornerssomestatues,oflessbulkydimensionsthanthe‘VintagingGirl,’plasterfigureswhichhadbeenmodelledwithpassionandexhibited,andwhichhadthencomebackforwantofbuyers,seemedtobeshiveringwiththeirnosesturnedtothewall,formingamelancholyrowofcripples,somealreadybadlydamaged,showingmerestumpsofarms,andalldust–begrimedandclay–bespattered.Undertheeyesoftheirartistcreator,whohadgiventhemhisheart’sblood,thosewretchednuditiesdraggedoutyearsofagony.Atfirst,nodoubt,theywerepreservedwithjealouscare,despitethelackofroom,butthentheylapsedintothegrotesquehonorofalllifelessthings,untiladaycamewhen,takingupamallet,hehimselffinishedthemoff,breakingthemintomerelumpsofplaster,soastoberidofthem.

‘Yousaywehavegottwohours,eh?’resumedMahoudeau.‘Well,I’lljustlightabitoffire;itwillbethewiserperhaps.’

Then,whilelightingthestove,hebeganbewailinghisfateinanangryvoice.Whatadog’slifeasculptor’swas!Themostbunglingstonemasonwasbetteroff.AfigurewhichtheGovernmentboughtforthreethousandfrancscostwellnightwothousand,whatwithitsmodel,clay,marbleorbronze,allsortsofexpenses,indeed,andforallthatitremainedburiedinsomeofficialcellaronthepretextthattherewasnoroomforitelsewhere.Thenichesofthepublicbuildingsremainedempty,pedestalswereawaitingstatuesinthepublicgardens.Nomatter,therewasneveranyroom!Andtherewerenopossiblecommissionsfromprivatepeople;atbestonereceivedanorderforafewbusts,andatveryrareintervalsoneforamemorialstatue,subscribedforbythepublicandhurriedlyexecutedatreducedterms.Sculpturewasthenoblestofarts,themostmanly,yes,buttheonewhichledthemostsurelytodeathbystarvation!

‘Isyourmachineprogressing?’askedClaude.

‘Withoutthisconfoundedcold,itwouldbefinished,’answeredMahoudeau.‘I’llshowityou.’

Herosefromhiskneesafterlisteningtothesnortingofthestove.Inthemiddleofthestudio,onapacking–case,strengthenedbycross–pieces,stoodastatueswathedislinenwrapswhichwerequiterigid,hardfrozen,drapingthefigurewiththewhitenessofashroud.ThisstatueembodiedMahoudeau’solddream,unrealiseduntilnowfromlackofmeans—itwasanuprightfigureofthatbathinggirlofwhommorethanadozensmallmodelshadbeenknockingabouthisplaceforyears.Inamomentofimpatientrevolthehimselfhadmanufacturedtrussesandstaysoutofbroom–handles,dispensingwiththenecessaryironworkinthehopethatthewoodwouldprovesufficientlysolid.Fromtimetotimeheshookthefiguretotryit,butasyetithadnotbudged.

‘Thedevil!’hemuttered;‘somewarmthwilldohergood.Thesewrapsseemgluedtoher—theyformquiteabreastplate.’

Thelinenwascracklingbetweenhisfingers,andsplintersoficewerebreakingoff.Hewasobligedtowaituntiltheheatproducedaslightthaw,andthenwithgreatcarehestrippedthefigure,baringtheheadfirst,thenthebosom,andthenthehips,wellpleasedatfindingeverythingintact,andsmilinglikealoveratawomanfondlyadored.

‘Well,whatdoyouthinkofit?’

Claude,whohadonlypreviouslyseenalittleroughmodelofthestatue,noddedhishead,inorderthathemightnothavetoanswerimmediately.Decidedly,thatgoodfellowMahoudeauwasturningtraitor,anddriftingtowardsgracefulness,inspiteofhimself,forprettythingseversprangfromunderhisbigfingers,formerstonecutterthoughhewas.Sincehiscolossal‘VintagingGirl,’hehadgoneonreducingandreducingtheproportionsofhisfigureswithoutappearingtobeawareofithimself,alwaysreadytostickoutferociouslyforthegigantic,whichagreedwithhistemperament,butyieldingtothepartialityofhiseyesforsweetnessandgracefulness.Andindeedrealnaturebrokeatlastthroughinflatedambition.Exaggeratedstill,his‘BathingGirl’wasalreadypossessedofgreatcharm,withherquiveringshouldersandhertightly–crossedarmsthatsupportedherbreast.

‘Well,youdon’tlikeher?’heasked,lookingannoyed.

‘Oh,yes,Ido!Ithinkyouarerighttotonethingsdownabit,seeingthatyoufeellikethat.You’llhaveagreatsuccesswiththis.Yes,it’sevidentitwillpleasepeopleverymuch.’

Mahoudeau,whomsuchpraiseswouldoncehavethrownintoconsternation,seemeddelighted.Heexplainedthathewishedtoconquerpublicopinionwithoutrelinquishingatitheofhisconvictions.

‘Ah!dashit!ittakesaweightoffmymindtofindyoupleased,’saidhe,‘forIshouldhavedestroyeditifyouhadtoldmetodoso,Igiveyoumyword!Anotherfortnight’swork,andI’llsellmyskintonomatterwhominordertopaythemoulder.Isay,IshallhaveafineshowattheSalon,perhapsgetamedal.’

Helaughed,wavedhisarmsabout,andthen,breakingoff:

‘Aswearenotinahurry,sitdownabit.Iwanttogetthewrapsquitethawed.’

Thestove,whichwasbecomingredhot,diffusedgreatheat.Thefigure,placedcloseby,seemedtoreviveunderthewarmairthatnowcreptupherfromhershinstoherneck.Andthetwofriends,whohadsatdown,continuedlookingthestatuefullintheface,chattingaboutitandnotingeachdetail.Thesculptorespeciallygrewexcitedinhisdelight,andindulgedincaressinggestures.

Allatonce,however,Claudefanciedhewasthevictimofsomehallucination.Tohimthefigureseemedtobemoving;aquiverliketherippleofawaveletcrossedherstomach,andherlefthipbecamestraightened,asiftherightlegwereabouttostepout.

‘Haveyounoticedthesmoothsurfacejustabouttheloins?’Mahoudeauwenton,withoutnoticinganything.‘Ah,myboy,Itookgreatpainsoverthat!’

Butbydegreesthewholestatuewasbecominganimated.Theloinsswayedandthebosomswelled,aswithadeepsigh,betweenthepartedarms.Andsuddenlytheheaddrooped,thethighsbent,andthefigurecameforwardlikealivingbeing,withallthewildanguish,thegrief–inspiredspringofawomanwhoisflingingherselfdown.

Claudeatlastunderstoodthings,whenMahoudeauutteredaterriblecry.‘Byheavens,she’sbreakingtopieces!—sheiscomingdown!’

Theclay,inthawing,hadsnappedtheweakwoodentrusses.Therecameacrackingnoise,asifbonesindeedweresplitting;andMahoudeau,withthesamepassionategesturewithwhichhehadcaressedthefigurefromafar,workinghimselfintoafever,openedbotharms,attheriskofbeingkilledbythefall.Foramomentthebathinggirlswayedtoandfro,andthenwithonecrashcamedownonherface,brokenintwainattheankles,andleavingherfeetstickingtotheboards.

Claudehadjumpeduptoholdhisfriendback.

‘Dashit!you’llbesmashed!’hecried.

Butdreadingtoseeherfinishherselfoffonthefloor,Mahoudeauremainedwithhandsoutstretched.Andthegirlseemedtoflingherselfonhisneck.Hecaughtherinhisarms,windingthemtightlyaroundher.Herbosomwasflattenedagainsthisshoulderandherthighsbeatagainsthisown,whileherdecapitatedheadrolleduponthefloor.TheshockwassoviolentthatMahoudeauwascarriedoffhislegsandthrownover,asfarbackasthewall;andthere,withoutrelaxinghisholdonthegirl’strunk,heremainedasifstunnedlyingbesideher.

‘Ah!confoundit!’repeatedClaude,furiously,believingthathisfriendwasdead.

WithgreatdifficultyMahoudeaurosetohisknees,andburstintoviolentsobs.Hehadonlydamagedhisfaceinthefall.Someblooddribbleddownoneofhischeeks,minglingwithhistears.

‘Ah!cursepoverty!’hesaid.‘It’senoughtomakeafellowdrownhimselfnottobeabletobuyacoupleofrods!Andtheresheis,theresheis!’

Hissobsgrewlouder;theybecameanagonisingwail;thepainfulshriekingofaloverbeforethemutilatedcorpseofhisaffections.Withunsteadyhandshetouchedthelimbslyinginconfusionaroundhim;thehead,thetorso,thearmsthathadsnappedintwain;aboveaughtelsethebosom,nowcavedin.Thatbosom,flattened,asifithadbeen

operateduponforsometerribledisease,suffocatedhim,andheunceasinglyreturnedtoit,probingthesore,tryingtofindthegashbywhichlifehadfled,whilehistears,mingledwithblood,flowedfreely,andstainedthestatue’sgapingwoundswithred.

‘Dohelpme!’hegasped.‘Onecan’tleaveherlikethis.’

Claudewasovercomealso,andhisowneyesgrewmoistfromafeelingofartisticbrotherliness.Hehastenedtohiscomrade’saide,butthesculptor,afterclaiminghisassistance,persistedinpickinguptheremainsbyhimself,asifdreadingtheroughhandlingofanybodyelse.Heslowlycrawledaboutonhisknees,tookupthefragmentsonebyone,andputthemtogetheronaboard.Thefiguresoonlaythereinitsentirety,asifithadbeenoneofthosegirlswho,committingsuicidefromlove,throwthemselvesfromsomemonumentandareshatteredbytheirfall,andputtogetheragain,lookingbothgrotesqueandlamentable,tobecarriedtotheMorgue.Mahoudeau,seatedonthefloorbeforehisstatue,didnottakehiseyesfromit,butbecameabsorbedinheart–rendingcontemplation.However,hissobssubsided,andatlasthesaidwithalong–drawnsigh:‘Ishallhavetomodelherlyingdown!There’snootherway!Ah,mypooroldwoman,Ihadsuchtroubletosetheronherlegs,andIthoughthersograndlikethat!’

ButallatonceClaudegrewuneasy.Whatabouthiswedding?Mahoudeaumustchangehisclothes.Ashehadnootherfrock–coatthantheonehewaswearing,hewasobligedtomakeajacketdo.Then,thefigurehavingbeencoveredwithlinenwrapsoncemore,likeacorpseoverwhichasheethasbeenpulled,theybothstartedoffatarun.Thestovewasroaringaway,thethawfilledthewholestudiowithwater,andslushstreamedfromtheolddust–begrimedplastercasts.

WhentheyreachedtheRuedeDouaitherewasnoonethereexceptlittleJacques,inchargeofthedoorkeeper.Christine,tiredofwaiting,hadjuststartedoffwiththethreeothers,thinkingthattherehadbeensomemistake—thatClaudemighthavetoldherthathewouldgostraighttothemayor’sofficeswithMahoudeau.Thepairfellintoasharptrot,butonlyovertookChristineandtheircomradesintheRueDrouotinfrontofthemunicipaledifice.Theyallwentupstairstogether,andastheywerelatetheymetwithaverycoolreceptionfromtheusheronduty.Theweddingwasgotoverinafewminutes,inaperfectlyemptyroom.Themayormumbledon,andthebrideandbridegroomcurtlyutteredthebinding‘Yes,’whiletheirwitnessesweremarvellingatthebadtasteoftheappointmentsoftheapartment.Onceoutside,ClaudetookChristine’sarmagain,andthatwasall.

Itwaspleasantwalkingintheclearfrostyweather.Thusthepartyquietlywentbackonfoot,climbingtheRuedesMartyrstoreachtherestaurantontheBoulevarddeClichy.Asmallprivateroomhadbeenengaged;thelunchwasaveryfriendlyaffair,andnotawordwassaidaboutthesimpleformalitythathadjustbeengonethrough;othersubjectswerespokenofallthewhile,asatoneoftheircustomarygatherings.

ItwasthusthatChristine,whoinrealitywasveryaffecteddespiteherpretendedindifference,heardherhusbandandhisfriendsexcitethemselvesforthreemortalhoursaboutMahoudeau’sunfortunatestatue.Sincetheothershadbeenmadeacquaintedwiththestory,theykeptharpingoneveryparticularofit.Sandozthoughtthewholethingverywonderful;JoryandGagnierediscussedthestrengthofstaysandtrusses;theformer

mainlyconcernedaboutthemonetarylossinvolved,andtheotherdemonstratingwithachairthatthestatuemighthavebeenkeptup.AsforMahoudeau,stillveryshakyandgrowingdazed;hecomplainedofastiffnesswhichhehadnotfeltbefore;hislimbsbegantohurthim,hehadstrainedhismusclesandbruisedhisskinasifhehadbeencaughtintheembraceofastonesiren.Christinewashedthescratchonhischeek,whichhadbeguntobleedagain,anditseemedtoherasifthemutilatedbathinggirlhadsatdowntotablewiththem,asifshealonewasofanyimportancethatday;forshealoneseemedtointerestClaude,whosenarrative,repeatedascoreoftimes,wasfullofendlessparticularsabouttheemotionhehadfeltonseeingthatbosomandthosehipsofclayshatteredathisfeet.

However,atdesserttherecameadiversion,forGagniereallatonceremarkedtoJory:

‘Bytheway,IsawyouwithMathildethedaybeforeyesterday.Yes,yes,intheRueDauphine.’

Jory,whohadturnedveryred,triedtodenyit;‘Oh,amereaccidentalmeeting—honourbright!’hestammered.‘Idon’tknowwhereshehangsout,orIwouldtellyou.’

‘What!isityouwhoarehidingher?’exclaimedMahoudeau.‘Well,nobodywantstoseeheragain!’

ThetruthwasthatJory,throwingtothewindsallhishabitsofprudenceandparsimony,wasnowsecretlyprovidingforMathilde.Shehadgainedanascendencyoverhimbyhisvices.

Theystilllingeredattable,andnightwasfallingwhentheyescortedMahoudeautohisowndoor.ClaudeandChristine,onreachinghome,tookJacquesfromthedoorkeeper,andfoundthestudioquitechilly,wrappedinsuchdensegloomthattheyhadtogropeaboutforseveralminutesbeforetheywereabletolightthelamp.Theyalsohadtolightthestoveagain,anditstruckseveno’clockbeforetheywereabletodrawbreathattheirease.Theywerenothungry,sotheymerelyfinishedtheremainsofsomeboiledbeef,mainlybywayofencouragingthechildtoeathissoup;andwhentheyhadputhimtobed,theysettledthemselveswiththelampbetwixtthem,aswastheirhabiteveryevening.

However,Christinehadnotputoutanywork,shefelttoomuchmovedtosew.Shesattherewithherhandsrestingidlyonthetable,lookingatClaude,whoonhissidehadatoncebecomeabsorbedinasketch,abitofhispicture,someworkmenofthePortSaintNicolas,unloadingplaster.Invincibledreaminesscameovertheyoungwoman,allsortsofrecollectionsandregretsbecameapparentinthedepthsofherdimeyes;andbydegreesgrowingsadness,greatmutegrieftookabsolutepossessionofher,amidtheindifference,theboundlesssolitudeintowhichsheseemedtobedrifting,althoughshewassoneartoClaude.Hewas,indeed,ontheothersideofthetable,yethowfarawayshefelthimtobe!HewasyonderbeforethatpointoftheCite,hewasevenfartherstill,intheinfiniteinaccessibleregionsofart;sofar,indeed,thatshewouldnownevermorebeabletojoinhim!Sheseveraltimestriedtostartaconversation,butwithoutelicitinganyanswer.Thehourswentby,shegrewwearyandnumbwithdoingnothing,andsheendedbytakingoutherpurseandcountinghermoney.

‘Doyouknowhowmuchwehavetobeginourmarriedlifewith?’

Claudedidnotevenraisehishead.

‘We’veninesous.Ah!talkofpoverty—’

Heshruggedhisshoulders,andfinallygrowled:‘Weshallberichsomeday;don’tfret.’

Thenthesilencefellagain,andshedidnotevenattempttobreakit,butgazedatherninecopperslaidinarowuponthetable.Atlast,asitstruckmidnight,sheshivered,illwithwaitingandchilledbythecold.

‘Let’sgotobed,dear,’shemurmured;‘I’mdeadtired.’

He,however,wasworkingfrantically,anddidnotevenhearher.

‘Thefire’sgoneout,’shebeganagain,‘weshallmakeourselvesill;let’sgotobed.’

Herimploringvoicereachedhimatlast,andmadehimstartwithsuddenexasperation.

‘Oh!goifyoulike!YoucanseeverywellthatIwanttofinishsomething!’

Sheremainedthereforanotherminute,amazedbyhissuddenanger,herfaceexpressiveofdeepsorrow.Then,feelingthathewouldratherbewithouther,thattheverypresenceofawomandoingnothingupsethim,sherosefromthetableandwentoff,leavingthedoorwideopen.Halfanhour,three–quarterswentby,nothingstirred,notasoundcamefromherroom;butshewasnotasleep,hereyeswerestaringintothegloom;andatlastshetimidlyventureduponafinalappeal,fromthedepthsofthedarkalcove.

Anoathwastheonlyreplyshereceived.Andnothingstirredafterthat.Sheperhapsdozedoff.Thecoldinthestudiogrewkeener,andthewickofthelampbegantocarboniseandburnred,whileClaude,stillbendingoverhissketch,didnotseemconsciousofthepassingminutes.

Attwoo’clock,however,heroseup,furioustofindthelampgoingoutforlackofoil.Heonlyhadtimetotakeitintotheotherroom,sothathemightnothavetoundressinthedark.ButhisdispleasureincreasedonseeingthatChristine’seyeswerewideopen.Hefeltinclinedtocomplainofit.However,aftersomerandomremarks,hesuddenlyexclaimed:

‘Themostsurprisingthingisthathertrunkwasn’thurt!’

‘Whatdoyoumean?’askedChristine,inamazement.

‘Why,Mahoudeau’sgirl,’heanswered.

Atthissheshooknervously,turnedandburiedherfaceinthepillow;andhewasquitesurprisedonhearingherburstintosobs.

‘What!youarecrying?’heexclaimed.

Shewaschoking,sobbingwithheart–rendingviolence.

‘Come,what’sthematterwithyou?—I’vesaidnothingtoyou.Come,darling,what’sthematter?’

But,whilehewasspeaking,thecauseofhergreatgriefdawneduponhim.Nodoubt,onadaylikethat,heoughttohaveshownmoreaffection;buthisneglectwasunintentionalenough;hehadnotevengiventhematterathought.Shesurelyknewhim,saidhe;hebecameadownrightbrutewhenhewasatwork.Thenhebentoverandembracedher.Butitwasasifsomethingirreparablehadtakenplace,asifsomethinghadforeversnapped,

leavingavoidbetweenthem.Theformalityofmarriageseemedtohavekilledlove.

IXASClaudecouldnotpainthishugepictureinthesmallstudiooftheRuedeDouai,hemadeuphismindtorentsomeshedthatwouldbespaciousenough,elsewhere;andstrollingonedayontheheightsofMontmartre,hefoundwhathewantedhalfwaydowntheslopeoftheRueTourlaque,astreetthatdescendsabruptlybehindthecemetery,andwhenceoneoverlooksClichyasfarasthemarshesofGennevilliers.Ithadbeenadyer’sdryingshed,andwasnearlyfiftyfeetlongandmorethanthirtybroad,withwallsofboardandplasteradmittingthewindfromeverypointofthecompass.Theplacewaslettohimforthreehundredfrancs.Summerwasathand;hewouldsoonworkoffhispictureandthenquit.

Thissettled,feverishwithhope,Claudedecidedtogotoallthenecessaryexpenses;asfortunewascertaintocomeintheend,whytrammelitsadventbyunnecessaryscruples?Takingadvantageofhisright,hebrokeinupontheprincipalofhisincome,andsoongrewaccustomedtospendmoneywithoutcounting.AtfirsthekeptthematterfromChristine,forshehadalreadytwicestoppedhimfromdoingso;andwhenhewasatlastobligedtotellher,shealso,afteraweekofreproachesandapprehension,fellinwithit,happyatthecomfortinwhichshelived,andyieldingtothepleasureofalwayshavingalittlemoneyinherpurse.Thustherecameafewyearsofeasyunconcern.

Claudesoonbecamealtogetherabsorbedinhispicture.Hehadfurnishedthehugestudioinaverysummarystyle:afewchairs,theoldcouchfromtheQuaideBourbon,andadealtableboughtsecond–handforfivefrancssufficedhim.Inthepracticeofhisarthewasentirelydevoidofthatvanitywhichdelightsinluxurioussurroundings.Theonlyrealexpensetowhichhewentwasthatofbuyingsomestepsoncastors,withaplatformandamovablefootboard.Nexthebusiedhimselfabouthiscanvas,whichhewishedtobesixandtwentyfeetinlengthandsixteeninheight.Heinsisteduponpreparingithimself;orderedaframeworkandboughtthenecessaryseamlesscanvas,whichheandacoupleoffriendshadalltheworkintheworldtostretchproperlybytheaidofpincers.Thenhejustcoatedthecanvaswithceruse,laidonwithapalette–knife,refusingtosizeitpreviously,inorderthatitmightremainabsorbent,bywhichmethodhedeclaredthatthepaintingwouldbebrightandsolid.Aneaselwasnottobethoughtof.Itwouldnothavebeenpossibletomoveacanvasofsuchdimensionsonit.Soheinventedasystemofropesandbeams,whichhelditslightlyslantingagainstthewallinacheerfullight.Andbackwardsandforwardsinfrontofthebigwhitesurfacerolledthesteps,lookinglikeanedifice,likethescaffoldingbymeansofwhichacathedralistobereared.

Butwheneverythingwasready,Claudeoncemoreexperiencedmisgivings.Anideathathehadperhapsnotchosentheproperlightinwhichtopainthispicturefidgetedhim.Perhapsanearlymorningeffectwouldhavebeenbetter?Perhaps,too,heoughttohavechosenadullday,andsohewentbacktothePontdesSaint–Peres,andlivedthereforanotherthreemonths.

TheCiteroseupbeforehim,betweenthetwoarmsoftheriver,atallhoursandinallweather.Afteralatefallofsnowhebehelditwrappedinermine,standingabovemud–

colouredwater,againstalightslateysky.Onthefirstsunshinydayshesawitcleanseitselfofeverythingthatwaswintryandputonanaspectofyouth,whenverduresproutedfromtheloftytreeswhichrosefromthegroundbelowthebridge.Hesawit,too,onasomewhatmistydayrecedetoadistanceandalmostevaporate,delicateandquivering,likeafairypalace.Then,again,therewerepeltingrains,whichsubmergedit,hiditaswithahugecurtaindrawnfromtheskytotheearth;storms,withlightningflasheswhichlentitatawnyhue,theopaquelightofsomecut–throatplacehalfdestroyedbythefallofthehugecopper–colouredclouds;andtherewerewindsthatsweptoverittempestuously,sharpeningitsanglesandmakingitlookhard,bare,andbeatenagainstthepalebluesky.Then,again,whenthesunbeamsbrokeintodustamidstthevapoursoftheSeine,itappearedsteepedindiffusedbrightness,withoutashadowaboutit,lightedupequallyoneveryside,andlookingascharminglydelicateasacutgemsetinfinegold.Heinsistedonbeholdingitwhenthesunwasrisingandtranspiercingthemorningmists,whentheQuaidel’HorlogeflushesandtheQuaidesOrfevresremainswraptingloom;when,upinthepinksky,itisalreadyfulloflife,withthebrightawakeningofitstowersandspires,whilenight,similartoafallingcloak,slidesslowlyfromitslowerbuildings.Hebehelditalsoatnoon,whenthesunraysfallonitvertically,whenacrudeglarebitesintoit,anditbecomesdiscolouredandmutelikeadeadcity,retainingnoughtbutthelifeofheat,thequiverthatdartsoveritsdistanthousetops.Hebeheldit,moreover,beneaththesettingsun,surrenderingitselftothenightwhichwasslowlyrisingfromtheriver,withthesalientedgesofitsbuildingsstillfringedwithaglowasofembers,andwithfinalconflagrationsrekindlinginitswindows,fromwhosepanesleapttongue–likeflashes.ButinpresenceofthosetwentydifferentaspectsoftheCite,nomatterwhatthehourortheweathermightbe,heevercamebacktotheCitethathehadseenthefirsttime,ataboutfouro’clockonefineSeptemberafternoon,aCiteallserenityunderagentlebreeze,aCitewhichtypifiedtheheartofParisbeatinginthelimpidatmosphere,andseeminglyenlargedbythevaststretchofskywhichaflightofcloudletscrossed.

ClaudespenthistimeunderthePontdesSaints–Peres,whichhehadmadehisshelter,hishome,hisroof.Theconstantdinofthevehiclesoverhead,similartothedistantrumblingofthunder,nolongerdisturbedhim.Settlinghimselfagainstthefirstabutment,beneaththehugeironarches,hetooksketchesandpaintedstudies.Theemployesoftherivernavigationservice,whoseofficeswerehardby,gottoknowhim,and,indeed,thewifeofaninspector,wholivedinasortoftarredcabinwithherhusband,twochildren,andacat,kepthiscanvasesforhim,tosavehimthetroubleofcarryingthemtoandfroeachday.ItbecamehisjoytoremaininthatsecludednookbeneathParis,whichrumbledintheairabovehim,whoseardentlifeheeverfeltrollingoverhead.HeatfirstbecamepassionatelyinterestedinPortSt.Nicolas,withitsceaselessbustlesuggestingthatofadistantgenuineseaport.Thesteamcrane,TheSophia,workedregularly,haulingupblocksofstone;tumbrelsarrivedtofetchloadsofsand;menandhorsespulled,pantingforbreathonthebigpaving–stones,whichslopeddownasfarasthewater,toagranitemargin,alongsidewhichtworowsoflightersandbargesweremoored.ForweeksClaudeworkedhardatastudyofsomelightermenunloadingacargoofplaster,carryingwhitesacksontheirshoulders,leavingawhitepathwaybehindthem,andbepowderedwithwhitethemselves,whilsthardbythecoalremovedfromanotherbargehadstainedthewatersidewithahugeinkysmear.Thenhesketchedthesilhouetteofaswimming–bathontheleftbank,togetherwithafloatingwash–housesomewhatintherear,showingthewindowsopenandthe

washerwomenkneelinginarow,onalevelwiththestream,andbeatingtheirdirtylinen.Inthemiddleoftheriver,hestudiedaboatwhichawatermansculledoverthestern;then,fartherbehind,asteamerofthetowingservicestrainingitschain,anddraggingaseriesofraftsloadedwithbarrelsandboardsupstream.Theprincipalbackgroundshadbeensketchedalongwhileago,stillhedidseveralbitsoveragain—thetwoarmsoftheSeine,andaskyallbyitself,intowhichroseonlytowersandspiresgildedbythesun.Andunderthehospitablebridge,inthatnookassecludedassomefar–offcleftinarock,hewasrarelydisturbedbyanybody.Anglerspassedbywithcontemptuousunconcern.Hisonlycompanionwasvirtuallytheoverseer’scat,whocleanedherselfinthesunlight,everplacidbeneaththetumultoftheworldoverhead.

AtlastClaudehadallhismaterialsready.Inafewdayshethrewoffanoutlinesketchofthewhole,andthegreatworkwasbegun.However,thefirstbattlebetweenhimselfandhishugecanvasragedintheRueTourlaquethroughoutthesummer;forheobstinatelyinsisteduponpersonallyattendingtoallthetechnicalcalculationsofhiscomposition,andhefailedtomanagethem,gettingintoconstantmuddlesabouttheslightestdeviationfrommathematicalaccuracy,ofwhichhehadnoexperience.Itmadehimindignantwithhimself.Soheletitgo,decidingtomakewhatcorrectionsmightbenecessaryafterwards.Hecoveredhiscanvaswitharush—insuchafeverastolivealldayonhissteps,brandishinghugebrushes,andexpendingasmuchmuscularforceasifhewereanxioustomovemountains.Andwheneveningcamehereeledaboutlikeadrunkenman,andfellasleepassoonashehadswallowedhislastmouthfuloffood.Hiswifeevenhadtoputhimtobedlikeachild.Fromthoseheroicefforts,however,sprangamasterlyfirstdraughtinwhichgeniusblazedforthamidstthesomewhatchaoticmassesofcolour.Bongrand,whocametolookatit,caughtthepainterinhisbigarms,andstifledhimwithembraces,hiseyesfulloftears.Sandoz,inhisenthusiasm,gaveadinner;theothers,Jory,MahoudeauandGagniere,againwentaboutannouncingamasterpiece.AsforFagerolles,heremainedmotionlessbeforethepaintingforamoment,thenburstintocongratulations,pronouncingittoobeautiful.

And,infact,subsequently,asiftheironyofthatsuccessfultricksterhadbroughthimbadluck,Claudeonlyspoilthisoriginaldraught.Itwastheoldstoryoveragain.Hespenthimselfinoneeffort,onemagnificentdash;hefailedtobringoutalltherest;hedidnotknowhowtofinish.Hefellintohisformerimpotence;fortwoyearshelivedbeforethatpictureonly,havingnofeelingforanythingelse.Attimeshewasinaseventhheavenofexuberantjoy;atothersflungtoearth,sowretched,sodistractedbydoubt,thatdyingmengaspingintheirbedsinahospitalwerehappierthanhimself.TwicealreadyhadhefailedtobereadyfortheSalon,forinvariably,atthelastmoment,whenhehopedtohavefinishedinafewsittings,hefoundsomevoid,felthiscompositioncrackandcrumblebeneathhisfingers.WhenthethirdSalondrewnigh,therecameaterriblecrisis;heremainedforafortnightwithoutgoingtohisstudiointheRueTourlaque,andwhenhedidso,itwasastoahousedesolatedbydeath.Heturnedthehugecanvastothewallandrolledhisstepsintoacorner;hewouldhavesmashedandburnedeverythingifhisfalteringhandshadfoundstrengthenough.Nothingmoreexisted;amidablastofangerhesweptthefloorclean,andspokeofsettingtoworkatlittlethings,sincehewasincapableofperfectingpaintingsofanysize.

Inspiteofhimself,hisfirstideaofapictureonasmallerscaletookhimbacktotheCite.

Whyshouldnothepaintasimpleview,onamoderatesizedcanvas?Butakindofshame,mingledwithstrangejealousy,preventedhimfromsettlinghimselfinhisoldspotunderthePontdesSaints–Peres.Itseemedtohimasifthatspotweresacrednow;thatheoughtnottoofferanyoutragetohisgreatwork,deadasitwas.Sohestationedhimselfattheendofthebank,abovethebridge.Thistime,atanyrate,hewouldworkdirectlyfromnature;andhefelthappyatnothavingtoresorttoanytrickery,aswasunavoidablewithworksofalargesize.Thesmallpicture,verycarefullypainted,morehighlyfinishedthanusual,met,however,withthesamefateastheothersbeforethehangingcommittee,whowereindignantwiththisstyleofpainting,executedwithatipsybrush,aswassaidatthetimeinthestudios.TheslapinthefacewhichClaudethusreceivedwasallthemoresevere,asareporthadspreadofconcessions,ofadvancesmadebyhimtotheSchoolofArts,inorderthathisworkmightbereceived.Andwhenthepicturecamebacktohim,he,deeplywounded,weepingwithrage,toreitintonarrowshreds,whichheburnedinhisstove.Itwasnotsufficientthatheshouldkillthatonewithaknife–thrust,itmustbeannihilated.

AnotheryearwentbyforClaudeindesultorytoil.Heworkedfromforceofhabit,butfinishednothing;hehimselfsaying,withadolorouslaugh,thathehadlosthimself,andwastryingtofindhimselfagain.Inreality,tenaciousconsciousnessofhisgeniuslefthimahopewhichnothingcoulddestroy,evenduringhislongestcrisesofdespondency.Hesufferedlikesomeonedamned,foreverrollingtherockwhichslippedbackandcrushedhim;butthefutureremained,withthecertaintyofonedayseizingthatrockinhispowerfularmsandflingingitupwardtothestars.Hisfriendsatlastbeheldhiseyeslightupwithpassiononcemore.ItwasknownthatheagainsecludedhimselfintheRueTourlaque.Hewhoformerlyhadalwaysbeencarriedbeyondtheworkonwhichhewasengaged,bysomedreamofapicturetocome,nowstoodatbaybeforethatsubjectoftheCite.Ithadbecomehisfixedidea—thebarthatcloseduphislife.Andsoonhebegantospeakfreelyofitagaininanewblazeofenthusiasm,exclaiming,withchildishdelight,thathehadfoundhiswayandthathefeltcertainofvictory.

OnedayClaude,who,sofar,hadnotopenedhisdoortohisfriends,condescendedtoadmitSandoz.Thelattertumbleduponastudywithadealofdashinit,thrownoffwithoutamodel,andagainadmirableincolour.Thesubjecthadremainedthesame—thePortSt.Nicolasontheleft,theswimming–bathsontheright,theSeineandCiteinthebackground.ButSandozwasamazedatperceiving,insteadoftheboatsculledbyawaterman,anotherlargeskifftakingupthewholecentreofthecomposition—askiffoccupiedbythreewomen.One,inabathingcostume,wasrowing;anothersatovertheedgewithherlegsdanglinginthewater,hercostumepartiallyunfastened,showingherbareshoulder;whilethethirdstooderectandnudeattheprow,sobrightintonethatsheseemedeffulgent,likethesun.

‘Why,whatanidea!’mutteredSandoz.‘Whatarethosewomendoingthere?’

‘Why,theyarebathing,’Claudequietlyanswered.‘Don’tyouseethattheyhavecomeoutoftheswimming–baths?Itsuppliesmewithamotiveforthenude;it’sarealfind,eh?Doesitshockyou?’

Hisoldfriend,whoknewhimwellbynow,dreadedlestheshouldgivehimcausefordiscouragement.

‘I?Oh,no!OnlyIamafraidthatthepublicwillagainfailtounderstand.ThatnudewomanintheverymidstofParis—it’simprobable.’

Claudelookednaivelysurprised.

‘Ah!youthinkso?Well,somuchtheworse.What’stheodds,aslongasthewomaniswellpainted?Besides,Ineedsomethinglikethattogetmycourageup.’

Onthefollowingoccasions,Sandozgentlyrevertedtothestrangenessofthecomposition,pleading,aswashisnature,thecauseofoutragedlogic.Howcouldamodernpainterwhopridedhimselfonpaintingmerelywhatwasreal—howcouldhesobastardisehisworkastointroducefancifulthingsintoit?Itwouldhavebeensoeasytochooseanothersubject,inwhichthenudewouldhavebeennecessary.ButClaudebecameobstinate,andresortedtolameandviolentexplanations,forhewouldnotavowhisrealmotive:anideawhichhadcometohimandwhichhewouldhavebeenatalosstoexpressclearly.Itwas,however,alongingforsomesecretsymbolism.ArecrudescenceofromanticismmadehimseeanincarnationofParisinthatnudefigure;hepicturedthecitybareandimpassioned,resplendentwiththebeautyofwoman.

Beforethepressingobjectionsofhisfriendhepretendedtobeshakeninhisresolutions.

‘Well,I’llsee;I’lldressmyoldwomanlateron,sincesheworriesyou,’hesaid.‘ButmeanwhileIshalldoherlikethat.Youunderstand,sheamusesme.’

Heneverrevertedtothesubjectagain,remainingsilentlyobstinate,merelyshrugginghisshouldersandsmilingwithembarrassmentwheneveranyallusionbetrayedthegeneralastonishmentwhichwasfeltatthesightofthatVenusemergingtriumphantlyfromthefrothoftheSeineamidstalltheomnibusesonthequaysandthelightermenworkingatthePortofSt.Nicolas.

Springhadcomeroundagain,andClaudehadoncemoreresolvedtoworkathislargepicture,wheninaspiritofprudenceheandChristinemodifiedtheirdailylife.She,attimes,couldnothelpfeelinguneasyatseeingalltheirmoneysoquicklyspent.Sincethesupplyhadseemedinexhaustible,theyhadceasedcounting.But,attheendoffouryears,theyhadwokeuponemorningquitefrightened,when,onaskingforaccounts,theyfoundthatbarelythreethousandfrancswereleftoutofthetwentythousand.Theyimmediatelyrevertedtosevereeconomy,stintingthemselvesastobread,planningthecuttingdownofthemostelementaryexpenses;anditwasthusthat,inthefirstimpulseofself–sacrifice,theylefttheRuedeDouai.Whatwastheuseofpayingtworents?Therewasroomenoughintheolddrying–shedintheRueTourlaque—stillstainedwiththedyesofformerdays—toaffordaccommodationforthreepeople.Settlingtherewas,nevertheless,adifficultaffair;forhoweverbigtheplacewas,itprovidedthem,afterall,withbutoneroom.Itwaslikeagipsy’sshed,whereeverythinghadtobedoneincommon.Asthelandlordwasunwilling,thepainterhimselfhadtodivideitatoneendbyapartitionofboards,behindwhichhedevisedakitchenandabedroom.Theywerethendelightedwiththeplace,despitethechinksthroughwhichthewindblew,andalthoughonrainydaystheyhadtosetbasinsbeneaththebroadercracksintheroof.Thewholelookedmournfullybare;theirfewpoorsticksseemedtodancealongsidethenakedwalls.Theythemselvespretendedtobeproudatbeinglodgedsospaciously;theytoldtheirfriendsthatJacqueswouldatleasthavealittleroomtorunabout.PoorJacques,inspiteofhis

nineyears,didnotseemtobegrowing;hisheadalonebecamelargerandlarger.Theycouldnotsendhimtoschoolformorethanaweekatastretch,forhecamebackabsolutelydazed,illfromhavingtriedtolearn,insuchwisethattheynearlyalwaysallowedhimtoliveonallfoursaroundthem,crawlingfromonecornertoanother.

Christine,whoforquitealongwhilehadnotsharedClaude’sdailywork,nowoncemorefoundherselfbesidehimthroughouthislonghoursoftoil.Shehelpedhimtoscrapeandpumicetheoldcanvasofthebigpicture,andgavehimadviceaboutattachingitmoresecurelytothewall.Buttheyfoundthatanotherdisasterhadbefallenthem—thestepshadbecomewarpedbythewaterconstantlytricklingthroughtheroof,and,forfearofanaccident,Claudehadtostrengthenthemwithanoakcross–piece,shehandinghimthenecessarynailsonebyone.Thenoncemore,andforthesecondtime,everythingwasready.Shewatchedhimagainoutliningthework,standingbehindhimthewhile,tillshefeltfaintwithfatigue,andfinallydroppingtothefloor,wheresheremainedsquatting,andstilllookingathim.

Ah!howshewouldhavelikedtosnatchhimfromthatpaintingwhichhadseizedholdofhim!Itwasforthatpurposethatshemadeherselfhisservant,onlytoohappytolowerherselftoalabourer’stoil.Sinceshesharedhisworkagain,sincethethreeofthem,he,she,andthecanvas,weresidebyside,herhoperevived.Ifhehadescapedherwhenshe,allalone,criedhereyesoutintheRuedeDouai,ifhelingeredtilllateintheRueTourlaque,fascinatedasbyamistress,perhapsnowthatshewaspresentshemightregainherholdoverhim.Ah,painting,painting!inwhatjealoushatredsheheldit!Herswasnolongertherevoltofagirlofthebourgeoisie,whopaintedneatlyinwater–colours,againstindependent,brutal,magnificentart.No,littlebylittleshehadcometounderstandit,drawntowardsitatfirstbyherloveforthepainter,andgainedoverafterwardsbythefeastoflight,bytheoriginalcharmofthebrighttintswhichClaude’sworksdisplayed.Andnowshehadacceptedeverything,evenlilac–tintedsoilandbluetrees.Indeed,akindofrespectmadeherquiverbeforethoseworkswhichhadatfirstseemedsohorridtoher.Sherecognisedtheirpowerwellenough,andtreatedthemlikerivalsaboutwhomonecouldnolongerjoke.Buthervindictivenessgrewinproportiontoheradmiration;sherevoltedathavingtostandbyandwitness,asitwere,adiminutionofherself,theblowofanotherlovebeneathherownroof.

Atfirsttherewasasilentstruggleofeveryminute.Shethrustherselfforward,interposedwhatevershecould,ahand,ashoulder,betweenthepainterandhispicture.Shewasalwaysthere,encompassinghimwithherbreath,remindinghimthathewashers.Thenheroldidearevived—shealsowouldpaint;shewouldseekandjoinhiminthedepthsofhisartfever.Everydayforawholemonthsheputonablouse,andworkedlikeapupilbythesideofamaster,diligentlycopyingoneofhissketches,andsheonlygaveinwhenshefoundtheeffortturnagainstherobject;for,deceived,asitwere,bytheirjointwork,hefinishedbyforgettingthatshewasawoman,andlivedwithheronafootingofmerecomradeshipasbetweenmanandman.Accordinglysheresortedtowhatwasheronlystrength.

Toperfectsomeofthesmallfiguresofhislatterpictures,Claudehadmanyatimealreadytakenthehintofahead,theposeofanarm,theattitudeofabodyfromChristine.Hethrewacloakoverhershoulders,andcaughtherintheposturehewanted,shoutingtoher

nottostir.Thesewerelittleserviceswhichsheshowedherselfonlytoopleasedtorenderhim,butshehadnothithertocaredtogofurther,forshewashurtbytheideaofbeingamodelnowthatshewashiswife.However,sinceClaudehadbroadlyoutlinedthelargeuprightfemalefigurewhichwastooccupythecentreofhispicture,Christinehadlookedatthevaguesilhouetteinadreamyway,worriedbyanever–pursuingthoughtbeforewhichallscruplesvanished.Andso,whenhespokeoftakingamodel,sheofferedherself,remindinghimthatshehadposedforthefigureinthe‘OpenAir’subject,longago.‘Amodel,’sheadded,‘wouldcostyousevenfrancsasitting.Wearenotsorich,wemayaswellsavethemoney.’

Thequestionofeconomydecidedhimatonce.

‘I’magreeable,andit’sevenverygoodofyoutoshowsuchcourage,foryouknowthatitisnotabitofpastimetositforme.Nevermind,youhadbetterconfesstoit,youbigsilly,youareafraidofanotherwomancominghere;youarejealous.’

Jealous!Yes,indeedshewasjealous,soshesufferedagony.Butshesnappedherfingersatotherwomen;allthemodelsinParismighthavesattohimforwhatshecared.Shehadbutonerival,thatpainting,thatartwhichrobbedherofhim.

Claude,whowasdelighted,atfirstmadeastudy,asimpleacademicstudy,intheattituderequiredforhispicture.TheywaiteduntilJacqueshadgonetoschool,andthesittinglastedforhours.DuringtheearlierdaysChristinesufferedagreatdealfrombeingobligedtoremaininthesameposition;thenshegrewusedtoit,notdaringtocomplain,lestshemightvexhim,andevenrestraininghertearswhenheroughlypushedherabout.Andhesoonacquiredthehabitofdoingso,treatingherlikeameremodel;moreexactingwithher,however,thanifhehadpaidher,neverafraidofundulytaxingherstrength,sinceshewashiswife.Heemployedherforeverypurpose,ateveryminute,foranarm,afoot,themosttriflingdetailthathestoodinneedof.Andthusinawayheloweredhertothelevelofa‘livinglayfigure,’whichhestuckinfrontofhimandcopiedashemighthavecopiedapitcherorastew–panforabitofstilllife.

ThistimeClaudeproceededleisurely,andbeforeroughinginthelargefigurehetiredChristineformonthsbymakingherposeintwentydifferentways.Atlast,oneday,hebegantheroughingin.Itwasanautumnalmorning,thenorthwindwasalreadysharp,anditwasbynomeanswarmeveninthebigstudio,althoughthestovewasroaring.AslittleJacqueswaspoorlyagainandunabletogotoschool,theyhaddecidedtolockhimupintheroomattheback,tellinghimtobeverygood.Andthenthemothersettledherselfnearthestove,motionless,intheattituderequired.

Duringthefirsthour,thepainter,percheduponhissteps,keptglancingather,butdidnotspeakaword.Unutterablesadnessstoleoverher,andshefeltafraidoffainting,nolongerknowingwhethershewassufferingfromthecoldorfromadespairthathadcomefromafar,andthebitternessofwhichshefelttoberisingwithinher.Herfatiguebecamesogreatthatshestaggeredandhobbledaboutonhernumbedlegs.

‘What,already?’criedClaude.‘Why,youhaven’tbeenatitmorethanaquarterofanhour.Youdon’twanttoearnyoursevenfrancs,then?’

Hewasjokinginagruffvoice,delightedwithhiswork.Andshehadscarcelyrecoveredtheuseofherlimbs,beneaththedressing–gownshehadwrappedroundher,whenhe

wentonshouting:‘Comeon,comeon,noidling!It’sagranddayto–dayis!Imusteithershowsomegeniusorelsekickthebucket.’

Then,inawearyway,sheatlastresumedthepose.

Themisfortunewasthatbeforelong,bothbyhisglancesandthelanguageheused,shefullyrealisedthatsheherselfwasasnothingtohim.Ifeverhepraisedalimb,atint,acontour,itwassolelyfromtheartisticpointofview.Greatenthusiasmandpassionheoftenshowed,butitwasnotpassionforherselfasintheolddays.Shefeltconfusedanddeeplymortified.Ah!thiswastheend;inherhenolongerlovedaughtbuthisart,theexampleofnatureandlife!Andthen,withhereyesgazingintospace,shewouldremainrigid,likeastatue,keepingbackthetearswhichmadeherheartswell,lackingeventhewretchedconsolationofbeingabletocry.Anddaybydaythesamesorrylifebeganafreshforher.Tostandthereashismodelhadbecomeherprofession.Shecouldnotrefuse,howeverbitterhergrief.Theironcehappylifewasallover,therenowseemedtobethreepeopleintheplace;itwasasifClaudehadintroducedamistressintoit—thatwomanhewaspainting.Thehugepictureroseupbetweenthem,partedthemaswithawall,beyondwhichhelivedwiththeother.ThatduplicationofherselfwellnighdroveChristinemadwithjealousy,andyetshewasconsciousofthepettinessofhersufferings,anddidnotdaretoconfessthemlestheshouldlaughather.However,shedidnotdeceiveherself;shefullyrealisedthathepreferredhercounterfeittoherself,thatherimagewastheworshippedone,thesolethought,theaffectionofhiseveryhour.Healmostkilledherwithlongsittingsinthatcolddraughtystudio,inordertoenhancethebeautyoftheother;uponwhomdependedallhisjoysandsorrowsaccordingastowhetherhebeheldherliveorlanguishbeneathhisbrush.Wasnotthislove?Andwhatsufferingtohavetolendherselfsothattheothermightbecreated,sothatshemightbehauntedbyanightmareofthatrival,sothatthelattermightforeverrisebetweenthem,morepowerfulthanreality!Tothinkofit!Somuchdust,theveriesttrifle,apatchofcolouronacanvas,ameresemblancedestroyingalltheirhappiness!—he,silent,indifferent,brutalattimes,andshe,torturedbyhisdesertion,indespairatbeingunabletodriveawaythatcreaturewhoeverencroachedmoreandmoreupontheirdailylife!

AnditwasthenthatChristine,findingherselfaltogetherbeateninhereffortstoregainClaude’slove,feltallthesovereigntyofartweighdownuponher.Thatpainting,whichshehadalreadyacceptedwithoutrestriction,sheraisedstillhigherinherestimation,placedinsideanawesometabernaclebeforewhichsheremainedovercome,asbeforethosepowerfuldivinitiesofwrathwhichonehonoursfromtheveryhatredandfearthattheyinspire.Herswasaholyawe,aconvictionthatstrugglingwashenceforthuseless,thatshewouldbecrushedlikeabitofstrawifshepersistedinherobstinacy.Eachofherhusband’scanvasesbecamemagnifiedinhereyes,thesmallestassumedtriumphaldimensions,eventheworstpaintedofthemoverwhelmedherwithvictory,andshenolongerjudgedthem,butgrovelled,trembling,thinkingthemallformidable,andinvariablyreplyingtoClaude’squestions:

‘Oh,yes;verygood!Oh,superb!Oh,very,veryextraordinarythatone!’

Nevertheless,sheharbourednoangeragainsthim;shestillworshippedhimwithtearfultenderness,asshesawhimthusconsumehimselfwithefforts.Afterafewweeksofsuccessfulwork,everythinggotspoiltagain;hecouldnotfinishhislargefemalefigure.At

timeshealmostkilledhismodelwithfatigue,keepinghardatworkfordaysanddaystogether,thenleavingthepictureuntouchedforawholemonth.Thefigurewasbegunanew,relinquished,paintedalloveragainatleastadozentimes.Oneyear,twoyearswentbywithoutthepicturereachingcompletion.Thoughsometimesitwasalmostfinished,itwasscratchedoutthenextmorningandpaintedentirelyoveragain.

Ah!whataneffortofcreationitwas,aneffortofbloodandtears,fillingClaudewithagonyinhisattempttobegetfleshandinstillife!Everbattlingwithreality,andeverbeaten,itwasastrugglewiththeAngel.Hewaswearinghimselfoutwiththisimpossibletaskofmakingacanvasholdallnature;hebecameexhaustedatlastwiththepainswhichrackedhismuscleswithouteverbeingabletobringhisgeniustofruition.Whatothersweresatisfiedwith,amoreorlessfaithfulrendering,thevariousnecessarybitsoftrickery,filledhimwithremorse,madehimasindignantasifinresortingtosuchpracticesonewereguiltyofignoblecowardice;andthushebeganhisworkoverandoveragain,spoilingwhatwasgoodthroughhiscravingtodobetter.Hewouldalwaysbedissatisfiedwithhiswomen—sohisfriendsjokinglydeclared—untiltheyflungtheirarmsroundhisneck.Whatwaslackinginhispowerthathecouldnotendowthemwithlife?Verylittle,nodoubt.Sometimeshewentbeyondtherightpoint,sometimeshestoppedshortofit.Onedaythewords,‘anincompletegenius,’whichheoverheard,bothflatteredandfrightenedhim.Yes,itmustbethat;hejumpedtoofarornotfarenough;hesufferedfromawantofnervousbalance;hewasafflictedwithsomehereditaryderangementwhich,becausetherewereafewgrainsthemoreorthelessofsomesubstanceinhisbrain,wasmakinghimalunaticinsteadofagreatman.Wheneverafitofdespairdrovehimfromhisstudio,wheneverhefledfromhiswork,henowcarriedaboutwithhimthatideaoffatalimpotence,andhehearditbeatingagainsthisskullliketheobstinatetollingofafuneralbell.

Hislifebecamewretched.Neverhaddoubtofhimselfpursuedhiminthatwaybefore.Hedisappearedforwholedaystogether;heevenstoppedoutawholenight,comingbackthenextmorningstupefied,withoutbeingabletosaywherehehadgone.ItwasthoughtthathehadbeentrampingthroughtheoutskirtsofParisratherthanfindhimselffacetofacewithhisspoiltwork.Hissolereliefwastofleethemomentthatworkfilledhimwithshameandhatred,andtoremainawayuntilhefeltsufficientcouragetofaceitoncemore.Andnotevenhiswifedaredtoquestionhimonhisreturn—indeed,shewasonlytoohappytoseehimbackagainafterheranxiouswaiting.AtsuchtimeshemadlyscouredParis,especiallytheoutlyingquarters,fromalongingtodebasehimselfandhob–nobwithlabourers.Heexpressedateachrecurringcrisishisoldregretatnotbeingsomemason’shodman.Didnothappinessconsistinhavingsolidlimbs,andinperformingtheworkonewasbuiltforwellandquickly?Hehadwreckedhislife;heoughttohavegothimselfengagedinthebuildinglineintheoldtimeswhenhehadlunchedatthe‘DogofMontargis,’Gomard’stavern,wherehehadknownaLimousin,abig,strapping,merryfellow,whosebrawnyarmsheenvied.Then,oncomingbacktotheRueTourlaque,withhislegsfaintandhisheadempty,hegavehispicturemuchthesamedistressful,frightenedglanceasonecastsatacorpseinamortuary,untilfreshhopeofresuscitatingit,ofendowingitwithlife,broughtaflushtohisfaceoncemore.

OnedayChristinewasposing,andthefigureofthewomanwasagainwellnighfinished.Forthelasthour,however,Claudehadbeengrowinggloomy,losingthechildishdelight

thathehaddisplayedatthebeginningofthesitting.Sohiswifescarcelydaredtobreathe,feelingbyherowndiscomfortthateverythingmustbegoingwrongoncemore,andafraidthatshemightacceleratethecatastropheifshemovedasmuchasafinger.And,surelyenough,hesuddenlygaveacryofanguish,andlaunchedforthanoathinathunderousvoice.

‘Oh,curseit!curseit!’

Hehadflunghishandfulofbrushesfromthetopofthesteps.Then,blindedwithrage,withoneblowofhisfisthetranspiercedthecanvas.

Christineheldouthertremblinghands.

‘Mydear,mydear!’

Butwhenshehadflungadressing–gownoverhershoulders,andapproachedthepicture,sheexperiencedkeendelight,aburstofsatisfiedhatred.Claude’sfisthadstruck‘theotherone’fullinthebosom,andtherewasagapinghole!Atlast,then,thatotheronewaskilled!

Motionless,horror–struckbythatmurder,Claudestaredattheperforatedbosom.Poignantgriefcameuponhimatthesightofthewoundwhencethebloodofhisworkseemedtoflow.Wasitpossible?Wasithewhohadthusmurderedwhathelovedbestofallonearth?Hisangerchangedintostupor;hisfingerswanderedoverthecanvas,drawingtheraggededgesoftherenttogether,asifhehadwishedtoclosethebleedinggash.Hewaschoking;hestammered,distractedwithboundlessgrief:

‘Sheiskilled,sheiskilled!’

ThenChristine,inhermaternalloveforthatbigchildofanartist,feltmovedtoherveryentrails.Sheforgavehimasusual.Shesawwellenoughthathenowhadbutonethought—tomendtherent,torepairtheevilatonce;andshehelpedhim;itwasshewhoheldtheshredstogether,whilsthefrombehindgluedastripofcanvasagainstthem.Whenshedressedherself,‘theotherone’wasthereagain,immortal,simplyretainingnearherheartaslightscar,whichseemedtomakeherdoublydeartothepainter.

AsthisunhingingofClaude’sfacultiesincreased,hedriftedintoasortofsuperstition,intoadevoutbeliefincertainprocessesandmethods.Hebanishedoilfromhiscolours,andspokeofitasofapersonalenemy.Ontheotherhand,heheldthatturpentineproducedasolidunpolishedsurface,andhehadsomesecretsofhisownwhichhehidfromeverybody;solutionsofamber,liquefiedcopal,andotherresinouscompoundsthatmadecoloursdryquickly,andpreventedthemfromcracking.Butheexperiencedsometerribleworries,astheabsorbentnatureofthecanvasatoncesuckedinthelittleoilcontainedinthepaint.Thenthequestionofbrusheshadalwaysworriedhimgreatly;heinsistedonhavingthemwithspecialhandles;andobjectingtosable,heusednothingbutoven–driedbadgerhair.Moreimportant,however,thaneverythingelsewasthequestionofpalette–knives,which,likeCourbet,heusedforhisbackgrounds.Hehadquiteacollectionofthem,somelongandflexible,othersbroadandsquat,andonewhichwastriangularlikeaglazier’s,andwhichhadbeenexpresslymadeforhim.ItwastherealDelacroixknife.Besides,henevermadeuseofthescraperorrazor,whichheconsideredbeneathanartist’sdignity.But,ontheotherhand,heindulgedinallsortsofmysteriouspracticesinapplying

hiscolours,concoctedrecipesandchangedthemeverymonth,andsuddenlyfanciedthathehadbitontherightsystemofpainting,when,afterrepudiatingoilanditsflow,hebegantolayonsuccessivetouchesuntilhearrivedattheexacttoneherequired.Oneofhisfadsforalongwhilewastopaintfromrighttoleft;for,withoutconfessingasmuch,hefeltsurethatitbroughthimluck.Buttheterribleaffairwhichunhingedhimoncemorewasanall–invadingtheoryrespectingthecomplementarycolours.Gagnierehadbeenthefirsttospeaktohimonthesubject,beinghimselfequallyinclinedtotechnicalspeculation.AfterwhichClaude,impelledbytheexuberanceofhispassion,tooktoexaggeratingthescientificprincipleswhereby,fromthethreeprimitivecolours,yellow,red,andblue,onederivesthethreesecondaryones,orange,green,andviolet,and,further,awholeseriesofcomplementaryandsimilarhues,whosecompositesareobtainedmathematicallyfromoneanother.Thusscienceenteredintopainting,therewasamethodforlogicalobservationalready.Oneonlyhadtotakethepredominatinghueofapicture,andnotethecomplementaryorsimilarcolours,toestablishexperimentallywhatvariationswouldoccur;forinstance,redwouldturnyellowishifitwerenearblue,andawholelandscapewouldchangeintintbytherefractionsandtheverydecompositionoflight,accordingtothecloudspassingoverit.Claudethenaccuratelycametothisconclusion:Thatobjectshavenorealfixedcolour;thattheyassumevarioushuesaccordingtoambientcircumstances;butthemisfortunewasthatwhenhetooktodirectobservation,withhisbrainthrobbingwithscientificformulas,hisprejudicedvisionlenttoomuchforcetodelicateshades,andmadehimrenderwhatwastheoreticallycorrectintoovividamanner:thushisstyle,oncesobright,sofullofthepalpitationofsunlight,endedinareversalofeverythingtowhichtheeyewasaccustomed,giving,forinstance,fleshofaviolettingeundertricolouredskies.Insanityseemedtobeattheendofitall.

PovertyfinishedoffClaude.Ithadgraduallyincreased,whilethefamilyspentmoneywithoutcounting;and,whenthelastcopperofthetwentythousandfrancshadgone,itswoopeddownuponthem—horribleandirreparable.Christine,whowantedtolookforwork,wasincapableofdoinganything,evenordinaryneedlework.Shebewailedherlot,twirlingherfingersandinveighingagainsttheidioticyounglady’seducationthatshehadreceived,sinceithadgivenhernoprofession,andheronlyresourcewouldbetoenterintodomesticservice,shouldlifestillgoagainstthem.Claude,onhisside,hadbecomeasubjectofchaffwiththeParisians,andnolongersoldapicture.Anindependentexhibitionatwhichheandsomefriendshadshownsomepictures,hadfinishedhimoffasregardsamateurs—somerryhadthepublicbecomeatthesightofhiscanvases,streakedwithallthecoloursoftherainbow.Thedealersfledfromhim.M.HuealonenowandthenmadeapilgrimagetotheRueTourlaque,andremainedinecstasybeforetheexaggeratedbits,thosewhichblazedinunexpectedpyrotechnicalfashion,indespairatbeingunabletocoverthemwithgold.Andthoughthepainterwantedtomakehimapresentofthem,imploredhimtoacceptthem,theoldfellowdisplayedextraordinarydelicacyoffeeling.Hepinchedhimselftoamassasmallsumofmoneyfromtimetotime,andthenreligiouslytookawaytheseeminglydeliriouspicture,tohangitbesidehismasterpieces.Suchwindfallscametooseldom,andClaudewasobligedtodescendto‘tradeart,’repugnantasitwastohim.Such,indeed,washisdespairathavingfallenintothatpoisonhouse,wherehehadswornnevertosetfoot,thathewouldhavepreferredstarvingtodeath,butforthetwopoorbeingswhoweredependentonhimandwhosufferedlikehimself.Hebecamefamiliarwith‘viaedolorosae’paintedatreducedprices,withmaleandfemalesaintsatso

muchpergross,evenwith‘pounced’shopblinds—inshort,alltheignoblejobsthatdegradepaintingandmakeitsomuchidioticdelineation,lackingeventhecharmofnaivete.Heevensufferedthehumiliationofhavingportraitsatfive–and–twentyfrancsa–piecerefused,becausehefailedtoproducealikeness;andhereachedthelowestdegreeofdistress—heworkedaccordingtosizeforthepettydealerswhoselldaubsonthebridges,andexportthemtosemi–civilisedcountries.Theyboughthispicturesattwoandthreefrancsa–piece,accordingtotheregulationdimensions.Thiswaslikephysicaldecay,itmadehimwasteaway;herosefromsuchtasksfeelingill,incapableofseriouswork,lookingathislargepictureindistress,andleavingitsometimesuntouchedforaweek,asifhehadfelthishandsbefouledandunworthyofworkingatit.

Theyscarcelyhadbreadtoeat,andthehugeshanty,whichChristinehadshownherselfsoproudof,onsettlinginit,becameuninhabitableinthewinter.She,oncesuchanactivehousewife,nowdraggedherselfabouttheplace,withoutcourageeventosweepthefloor,andthuseverythinglapsedintoabandonment.InthedisasterlittleJacqueswassadlyweakenedbyunwholesomeandinsufficientfood,fortheirmealsoftenconsistedofamerecrust,eatenstanding.Withtheirlivesthusill–regulated,uncaredfor,theyweredriftingtothefilthofthepoorwholoseevenallself–pride.

Atthecloseofanotheryear,Claude,ononeofthosedaysofdefeat,whenhefledfromhismiscarriedpicture,metanoldacquaintance.Thistimehehadswornhewouldnevergohomeagain,andhehadbeentrampingacrossParissincenoon,asifathisheelshehadheardthewanspectreofthebig,nudefigureofhispicture—ravagedbyconstantretouching,andalwaysleftincomplete—pursuinghimwithapassionatecravingforbirth.Themistwasmeltingintoayellowishdrizzle,befoulingthemuddystreets.Itwasaboutfiveo’clock,andhewascrossingtheRueRoyalelikeonewalkinginhissleep,attheriskofbeingrunover,hisclothesinragsandmud–bespattereduptohisneck,whenabroughamsuddenlydrewup.

‘Claude,eh?Claude!—isthathowyoupassyourfriends?’

ItwasIrmaBecotwhospoke,Irmainacharminggreysilkdress,coveredwithChantillylace.Shehadhastilyletdownthewindow,andshesatsmiling,beamingintheframe–workofthecarriagedoor.

‘Whereareyougoing?’

He,staringatheropen–mouthed,repliedthathewasgoingnowhere.Atwhichshemerrilyexpressedsurpriseinaloudvoice,lookingathimwithhersaucyeyes.

‘Getin,then;it’ssuchalongwhilesincewemet,’saidshe.‘Getin,oryou’llbeknockeddown.’

And,infact,theotherdriversweregettingimpatient,andurgingtheirhorseson,amidstaterribledin,sohedidashewasbidden,feelingquitedazed;andshedrovehimaway,dripping,withtheunmistakablesignsofhispovertyuponhim,inthebroughamlinedwithbluesatin,wherehesatpartlyonthelaceofherskirt,whilethecabdriversjeeredattheelopementbeforefallingintolineagain.

WhenClaudecamebacktotheRueTourlaquehewasinadazedcondition,andforacoupleofdaysremainedmusingwhetherafterallhemightnothavetakenthewrong

courseinlife.HeseemedsostrangethatChristinequestionedhim,whereuponheatfirststutteredandstammered,andfinallyconfessedeverything.Therewasascene;sheweptforalongwhile,thenpardonedhimoncemore,fullofinfiniteindulgenceforhim.And,indeed,amidstallherbittergrieftheresprangupahopethathemightyetreturntoher,forifhecoulddeceiveherthushecouldnotcareasmuchasshehadimaginedforthathatefulpaintedcreaturewhostareddownfromthebigcanvas.

Thedayswentby,andtowardsthemiddleofthewinterClaude’scouragerevivedoncemore.Oneday,whileputtingsomeoldframesinorder,hecameuponarollofcanvaswhichhadfallenbehindtheotherpictures.Onopeningtherollhefoundonitthenudefigure,therecliningwomanofhisoldpainting,‘IntheOpenAir,’whichhehadcutoutwhenthepicturehadcomebacktohimfromtheSalonoftheRejected.And,ashegazedatit,heutteredacryofadmiration:

‘Bythegods,howbeautifulitis!’

Heatoncesecuredittothewallwithfournails,andremainedforhoursincontemplationbeforeit.Hishandsshook,thebloodrushedtohisface.Wasitpossiblethathehadpaintedsuchamasterlything?Hehadpossessedgeniusinthosedaysthen.Sohisskull,hiseyes,hisfingershadbeenchanged.Hebecamesofeverishlyexcitedandfeltsuchaneedofunburtheninghimselftosomebody,thatatlasthecalledhiswife.

‘Justcomeandhavealook.Isn’therattitudegood,eh?Howdelicatelyhermusclesarearticulated!Justlookatthatbitthere,fullofsunlight.Andattheshoulderhere.Ah,heavens!it’sfulloflife;IcanfeelitthrobasItouchit.’

Christine,standingby,keptlookingandansweringinmonosyllables.Thisresurrectionofherself,aftersomanyyears,hadatfirstflatteredandsurprisedher.Butonseeinghimbecomesoexcited,shegraduallyfeltuncomfortableandirritated,withoutknowingwhy.

‘Tellme,’hecontinued,‘don’tyouthinkherbeautifulenoughforonetogoonone’skneestoher?’

‘Yes,yes.Butshehasbecomeratherblackish—’

Claudeprotestedvehemently.Becomeblackish,whatanidea!Thatwomanwouldnevergrowblack;shepossessedimmortalyouth!Veritablepassionhadseizedholdofhim;hespokeofthefigureasofalivingbeing;hehadsuddenlongingstolookatherthatmadehimleaveeverythingelse,asifhewerehurryingtoanappointment.

Then,onemorning,hewastakenwithafitofwork.

‘But,confounditall,asIdidthat,Icansurelydoitagain,’hesaid.‘Ah,thistime,unlessI’madownrightbrute,we’llseeaboutit.’

AndChristinehadtogivehimasittingthereandthen.Foreighthoursaday,indeed,duringawholemonthhekeptherbeforehim,withoutcompassionforherincreasingexhaustionorforthefatiguehefelthimself.Heobstinatelyinsisteduponproducingamasterpiece;hewasdeterminedthattheuprightfigureofhisbigpictureshouldequalthatrecliningonewhichhesawonthewall,beamingwithlife.Heconstantlyreferredtoit,compareditwiththeonehewaspainting,distractedbythefearofbeingunabletoequalit.Hecastoneglanceatit,anotheratChristine,andathirdathiscanvas,andburstintooaths

wheneverhefeltdissatisfied.Heendedbyabusinghiswife.

Shewasnolongeryoung.Agehadspoiltherfigure,andthatitwaswhichspoilthiswork.Shelistened,andstaggeredinherverygrief.Thosesittings,fromwhichshehadalreadysufferedsomuch,werebecomingunbearabletorturenow.Whatwasthisnewfreakofcrushingherwithherowngirlhood,offanningherjealousybyfillingherwithregretforvanishedbeauty?Shewasbecomingherownrival,shecouldnolongerlookatthatoldpictureofherselfwithoutbeingstungattheheartbyhatefulenvy.Ah,howheavilyhadthatpicture,thatstudyshehadsatforlongago,weigheduponherexistence!Thewholeofhermisfortunessprangfromit.Ithadchangedthecurrentofherexistence.Andithadcometolifeagain,itrosefromthedead,endowedwithgreatervitalitythanherself,tofinishkillingher,fortherewasnolongeraughtbutonewomanforClaude—shewhowasshownrecliningontheoldcanvas,andwhonowaroseandbecametheuprightfigureofhisnewpicture.

ThenChristinefeltherselfgrowingolderandolderateachsuccessivesitting.Andsheexperiencedtheinfinitedespairwhichcomesuponpassionatewomenwhenlove,likebeauty,abandonsthem.WasitbecauseofthisthatClaudenolongercaredforher,thathesoughtrefugeinanunnaturalpassionforhiswork?Shesoonlostallclearperceptionofthings;shefellintoastateofutterneglect,goingaboutinadressingjacketanddirtypetticoats,devoidofallcoquettishfeeling,discouragedbytheideathatitwasuselessforhertocontinuestruggling,sinceshehadbecomeold.

TherewereoccasionallyabominablescenesbetweenherandClaude,whothistime,however,obstinatelystucktohisworkandfinishedhispicture,swearingthat,comewhatmight,hewouldsendittotheSalon.Helivedonhissteps,cleaninguphisbackgroundsuntildark.Atlast,thoroughlyexhausted,hedeclaredthathewouldtouchthecanvasnomore;andSandoz,oncomingtoseehimoneday,atfouro’clock,didnotfindhimathome.ChristinedeclaredthathehadjustgoneouttotakeabreathofairontheheightofMontmartre.

ThebreachbetweenClaudeandhisoldfriendshadgraduallywidened.Withtimethelatters’visitshadbecomebriefandfarbetween,fortheyfeltuncomfortablewhentheyfoundthemselvesfacetofacewiththatdisturbingstyleofpainting;andtheyweremoreandmoreupsetbytheunhingingofamindwhichhadbeentheadmirationoftheiryouth.Nowallhadfled;noneexceptingSandozevercame.GagnierehadevenleftParis,tosettledowninoneofthetwohousesheownedatMelun,wherehelivedfrugallyupontheproceedsoftheotherone,aftersuddenlymarrying,toeveryone’ssurprise,anoldmaid,hismusicmistress,whoplayedWagnertohimofanevening.AsforMahoudeau,heallegedworkasanexcusefornotcoming,andindeedhewasbeginningtoearnsomemoney,thankstoabronzemanufacturer,whoemployedhimtotouchuphismodels.MattersweredifferentwithJory,whomnoonesaw,sinceMathildedespoticallykepthimsequestrated.Shehadconqueredhim,andhehadfallenintoakindofdomesticitycomparabletothatofafaithfuldog,yieldingupthekeysofhiscashbox,andonlycarryingenoughmoneyabouthimtobuyacigaratatime.ItwasevensaidthatMathilde,likethedevoteeshehadoncebeen,hadthrownhimintothearmsoftheChurch,inordertoconsolidateherconquest,andthatshewasconstantlytalkingtohimaboutdeath,ofwhichhewashorriblyafraid.Fagerollesaloneaffectedalively,cordialfeelingtowardshisold

friendClaudewheneverhehappenedtomeethim.Hethenalwayspromisedtogoandseehim,butneverdidso.Hewassobusysincehisgreatsuccess,insuchrequest,advertised,celebrated,ontheroadtoeveryimaginablehonourandformoffortune!AndClauderegrettednobodysaveDubuche,towhomhestillfeltattached,fromafeelingofaffectionfortheoldreminiscencesofboyhood,notwithstandingthedisagreementswhichdifferenceofdispositionhadprovokedlateron.ButDubuche,itappeared,wasnotveryhappyeither.Nodoubthewasgorgedwithmillions,butheledawretchedlife,constantlyatlogger–headswithhisfather–in–law(whocomplainedofhavingbeendeceivedwithregardtohiscapabilitiesasanarchitect),andobligedtopasshislifeamidstthemedicinebottlesofhisailingwifeandhistwochildren,who,havingbeenprematurelyborn,hadtoberearedvirtuallyincottonwool.

Ofalltheoldfriends,therefore,thereonlyremainedSandoz,whostillfoundhiswaytotheRueTourlaque.HecamethitherforlittleJacques,hisgodson,andforthesorrowingwomanalso,thatChristinewhosepassionatefeaturesamidstallthisdistressmovedhimdeeply,likeavisionofoneoftheardentlyamorouscreatureswhomhewouldhavelikedtoembodyinhisbooks.But,aboveall,hisfeelingofartisticbrotherlinesshadincreasedsincehehadseenClaudelosingground,founderingamidsttheheroicfollyofart.Atfirsthehadremainedutterlyastonishedatit,forhehadbelievedinhisfriendmorethaninhimself.Sincetheircollegedays,hehadalwaysplacedhimselfsecond,whilesettingClaudeveryhighonfame’sladder—onthesamerung,indeed,asthemasterswhorevolutioniseaperiod.Thenhehadbeengrievouslyaffectedbythatbankruptcyofgenius;hehadbecomefullofbitter,heartfeltpityatthesightofthehorribletortureofimpotency.Didoneeverknowwhowasthemadmaninart?Everyfailuretouchedhimtothequick,andthemoreapictureorabookvergeduponaberration,sanktothegrotesqueandlamentable,themoredidSandozquiverwithcompassion,themoredidhelongtolulltosleep,inthesoothingextravaganceoftheirdreams,thosewhowerethusblastedbytheirownwork.

OnthedaywhenSandozcalled,andfailedtofindClaudeathome,hedidnotgoaway;but,seeingChristine’seyelidsredwithcrying,hesaid:

‘Ifyouthinkthathe’llbeinsoon,I’llwaitforhim.’

‘Oh!hesurelywon’tbelong.’

‘InthatcaseI’llwait,unlessIaminyourway.’

Neverhadherdemeanour,thecrushedlookofaneglectedwoman,herlistlessmovements,herslowspeech,herindifferenceforeverythingbutthepassionthatwasconsumingher,movedhimsodeeply.Forthelastweek,perhaps,shehadnotputachairinitsplace,ordustedapieceoffurniture;shelefttheplacetogotowreckandruin,scarcelyhavingthestrengthtodragherselfabout.Anditwasenoughtobreakone’shearttobeholdthatmiseryendinginfilthbeneaththeglaringlightfromthebigwindow;togazeonthatill–pargettedshanty,sobareanddisorderly,whereoneshiveredwithmelancholyalthoughitwasabrightFebruaryafternoon.

Christinehadslowlysatdownbesideanironbedstead,whichSandozhadnotnoticedwhenhecamein.

‘Hallo,’hesaid,‘isJacquesill?’

Shewascoveringupthechild,whoconstantlyflungoffthebedclothes.

‘Yes,hehasn’tbeenupthesethreedays.Webroughthisbedinheresothathemightbewithus.Hewasneververystrong.Butheisgettingworseandworse,it’sdistracting.’

Shehadafixedstareinhereyesandspokeinamonotonoustone,andSandozfeltfrightenedwhenhedrewuptothebedside.Thechild’spaleheadseemedtohavegrownbiggerstill,soheavythathecouldnolongersupportit.Helayperfectlystill,andonemighthavethoughthewasdead,butfortheheavybreathingcomingfrombetweenhisdiscolouredlips.

‘MypoorlittleJacques,it’sI,yourgodfather.Won’tyousayhowd’yedo?’

Thechildmadeafruitless,painfulefforttolifthishead;hiseyelidsparted,showinghiswhiteeyeballs,thenclosedagain.

‘Haveyousentforadoctor?’

Christineshruggedhershoulders.

‘Oh!doctors,whatdotheyknow?’sheanswered.‘Wesentforone;hesaidthattherewasnothingtobedone.Letushopethatitwillpassoveragain.Heiscloseupontwelveyearsoldnow,andmaybeheisgrowingtoofast.’

Sandoz,quitechilled,saidnothingforfearofincreasingheranxiety,sinceshedidnotseemtorealisethegravityofthedisease.Hewalkedaboutinsilenceandstoppedinfrontofthepicture.

‘Ho,ho!it’sgettingon;it’sontherightroadthistime.’

‘It’sfinished.’

‘What!finished?’

AndwhenshetoldhimthatthecanvaswastobesenttotheSalonthatnextweek,helookedembarrassed,andsatdownonthecouch,likeamanwhowishestojudgetheworkleisurely.Thebackground,thequays,theSeine,whencearosethetriumphalpointoftheCite,stillremainedinasketchystate—masterly,however,butasifthepainterhadbeenafraidofspoilingtheParisofhisdreambygivingitgreaterfinish.Therewasalsoanexcellentgroupontheleft,thelightermenunloadingthesacksofplasterbeingcarefullyandpowerfullytreated.Buttheboatfullofwomeninthecentretranspiercedthepicture,asitwere,withablazeofflesh–tintswhichwerequiteoutofplace;andthebrilliancyandhallucinatoryproportionsofthelargenudefigurewhichClaudehadpaintedinafeverseemedstrangely,disconcertinglyfalseamidsttherealityofalltherest.

Sandoz,silent,felldespairstealoverhimashesatinfrontofthatmagnificentfailure.ButhesawChristine’seyesfixeduponhim,andhadsufficientstrengthofmindtosay:

‘Astounding!—thewoman,astounding!’

AtthatmomentClaudecamein,andonseeinghisoldchumheutteredajoyousexclamationandshookhishandvigorously.ThenheapproachedChristine,andkissedlittleJacques,whohadoncemorethrownoffthebedclothes.

‘Howishe?’

‘Justthesame.’

‘Tobesure,tobesure;heisgrowingtoofast.Afewdays’restwillsethimallright.Itoldyounottobeuneasy.’

AndClaudethereuponsatdownbesideSandozonthecouch.Theybothtooktheirease,leaningback,withtheireyessurveyingthepicture;whileChristine,seatedbythebed,lookedatnothing,andseeminglythoughtofnothing,intheeverlastingdesolationofherheart.Nightwasslowlycomingon,thevividlightfromthewindowpaledalready,losingitssheenamidsttheslowly–fallingcrepusculardimness.

‘Soit’ssettled;yourwifetoldmethatyouweregoingtosenditin.’

‘Yes.’

‘Youareright;youhadbetterhavedonewithitonceforall.Oh,therearesomemagnificentbitsinit.Thequayinperspectivetotheleft,themanwhoshouldersthatsackbelow.But—’

Hehesitated,thenfinallytookthebullbythehorns.

‘But,it’soddthatyouhavepersistedinleavingthosewomennude.Itisn’tlogical,Iassureyou;and,besides,youpromisedmeyouwoulddressthem—don’tyouremember?Youhavesetyourheartuponthemverymuchthen?’

‘Yes.’

Claudeansweredcurtly,withtheobstinacyofonemasteredbyafixedideaandunwillingtogiveanyexplanations.Thenhecrossedhisarmsbehindhishead,andbegantalkingofotherthings,without,however,takinghiseyesoffhispicture,overwhichthetwilightbegantocastaslightshadow.

‘DoyouknowwhereIhavejustcomefrom?’heasked.‘IhavebeentoCourajod’s.Youknow,thegreatlandscapepainter,whose“PondofGagny”isattheLuxembourg.Youremember,Ithoughthewasdead,andweweretoldthathelivedhereabouts,ontheothersideofthehill,intheRuedel’Abreuvoir.Well,oldboy,heworriedme,didCourajod.Whiletakingabreathofairnowandthenupthere,Idiscoveredhisshanty,andIcouldnolongerpassinfrontofitwithoutwantingtogoinside.Justthink,amaster,amanwhoinventedourmodernlandscapeschool,andwholivesthere,unknown,donefor,likeamoleinitshole!Youcanhavenoideaofthestreetorthecaboose:avillagestreet,fulloffowls,andborderedbygrassybanks;andacabooselikeachild’stoy,withtinywindows,atinydoor,atinygarden.Oh!thegarden—amerepatchofsoil,slopingdownabruptly,withabedwherefourpeartreesstand,andtheresttakenupbyafowl–house,madeoutofgreenboards,oldplaster,andwirenetwork,heldtogetherwithbitsofstring.’

Hiswordscameslowly;heblinkedwhilehespokeasifthethoughtofhispicturehadreturnedtohimandwasgraduallytakingpossessionofhim,tosuchadegreeastohamperhiminhisspeechaboutothermatters.

‘Well,asluckwouldhaveit,IfoundCourajodonhisdoorstepto–day.Anoldmanofmorethaneighty,wrinkledandshrunktothesizeofaboy.Ishouldlikeyoutoseehim,withhisclogs,hispeasant’sjerseyandhiscolouredhandkerchiefwoundoverhisheadasifhewereanoldmarket–woman.Ipluckilywentuptohim,saying,“MonsieurCourajod,

Iknowyouverywell;youhaveapictureintheLuxembourgGallerywhichisamasterpiece.Allowapaintertoshakehandswithyouashewouldwithhismaster.”Andthenyoushouldhaveseenhimtakefright,drawbackandstutter,asifIweregoingtostrikehim.Aregularflight!However,Ifollowedhim,andgraduallyherecoveredhiscomposure,andshowedmehishens,hisducks,hisrabbitsanddogs—anextraordinarycollectionofbirdsandbeasts;therewasevenaravenamongthem.Helivesinthemidstofthemall;hespeakstonoonebuthisanimals.Asfortheview,it’ssimplymagnificent;youseethewholeoftheSt.Denisplainformilesuponmiles;riversandtowns,smokingfactory–chimneys,andpuffingrailway–engines;inshort,theplaceisarealhermitageonahill,withitsbackturnedtoParisanditseyesfixedontheboundlesscountry.Asamatterofcourse,Icamebacktohispicture.“Oh,MonsieurCourajod,”saidI,“whattalentyoushowed!Ifyouonlyknewhowmuchwealladmireyou.Youareoneofourillustriousmen;you’llremaintheancestorofusall.”Buthislipsbegantotrembleagain;helookedatmewithanairofterror–strickenstupidity;IamsurehewouldnothavewavedmebackwithamoreimploringgestureifIhadunearthedunderhisveryeyesthecorpseofsomeforgottencomradeofhisyouth.Hekeptchewingdisconnectedwordsbetweenhistoothlessgums;itwasthemumblingofanoldmanwhohadsunkintosecondchildhood,andwhomit’simpossibletounderstand.“Don’tknow—solongago—tooold—don’tcarearap.”Tomakealongstoryshort,heshowedmethedoor;Iheardhimhurriedlyturnthekeyinlock,barricadinghimselfandhisbirdsandanimalsagainsttheadmirationoftheoutsideworld.Ah,mygoodfellow,theideaofit!Thatgreatmanendinghislifelikearetiredgrocer;thatvoluntaryrelapseinto“nothingness”evenbeforedeath.Ah,theglory,thegloryforwhichweothersarereadytodie!’

Claude’svoice,whichhadsunklowerandlower,diedawayatlastinamelancholysigh.Darknesswasstillcomingon;aftergraduallycollectinginthecorners,itroselikeaslow,inexorabletide,firstsubmergingthelegsofthechairsandthetable,alltheconfusionofthingsthatlitteredthetiledfloor.Thelowerpartofthepicturewasalreadygrowingdim,andClaude,withhiseyesstilldesperatelyfixedonit,seemedtobewatchingtheascentofthedarknessasifhehadatlastjudgedhisworkintheexpiringlight.Andnosoundwasheardsavethestertorousbreathingofthesickchild,nearwhomtherestillloomedthedarksilhouetteofthemotionlessmother.

ThenSandozspokeinhisturn,hishandsalsocrossedbehindhishead,andhisbackrestingagainstoneofthecushionsofthecouch.

‘Doesoneeverknow?Woulditnotbebetter,perhaps,toliveanddieunknown?WhatasellitwouldbeifartisticgloryexistednomorethantheParadisewhichistalkedaboutincatechismsandwhichevenchildrennowadaysmakefunof!We,whonolongerbelieveintheDivinity,stillbelieveinourownimmortality.Whatafarceitallis!’

Then,affectedtomelancholyhimselfbythemournfulnessofthetwilight,andstirredbyallthehumansufferinghebeheldaroundhim,hebegantospeakofhisowntorments.

‘Lookhere,oldman,I,whomyouenvy,perhaps—yes,I,whoambeginningtogetonintheworld,asmiddle–classpeoplesay—I,whopublishbooksandearnalittlemoney—well,Iambeingkilledbyitall.Ihaveoftenalreadytoldyouthis,butyoudon’tbelieveme,because,asyouonlyturnoutworkwithadealoftroubleandcannotbringyourselftopublicnotice,happinessinyoureyescouldnaturallyconsistinproducingagreatdeal,in

beingseen,andpraisedorslated.Well,getadmittedtothenextSalon,getintothethickofthebattle,paintotherpictures,andthentellmewhetherthatsuffices,andwhetheryouarehappyatlast.Listen;workhastakenupthewholeofmyexistence.Littlebylittle,ithasrobbedmeofmymother,ofmywife,ofeverythingIlove.Itislikeagermthrownintothecranium,whichfeedsonthebrain,findsitswayintothetrunkandlimbs,andgnawsupthewholeofthebody.ThemomentIjumpoutofbedofamorning,workclutchesholdofme,rivetsmetomydeskwithoutleavingmetimetogetabreathoffreshair;thenitpursuesmeatluncheon—Iaudiblychewmysentenceswithmybread.NextitaccompaniesmewhenIgoout,comesbackwithmeanddinesoffthesameplateasmyself;liesdownwithmeonmypillow,soutterlypitilessthatIamneverabletosetthebookinhandononeside;indeed,itsgrowthcontinueseveninthedepthofmysleep.Andnothingoutsideofitexistsforme.True,Igoupstairstoembracemymother,butinsoabsent–mindedaway,thattenminutesafterleavingherIaskmyselfwhetherIhavereallybeentowishhergood–morning.Mypoorwifehasnohusband;Iamnotwithherevenwhenourhandstouch.SometimesIhaveanacutefeelingthatIammakingtheirlivesverysad,andIfeelveryremorseful,forhappinessissolelycomposedofkindness,franknessandgaietyinone’shome;buthowcanIescapefromtheclawsofthemonster?Iatoncerelapseintothesomnambulismofmyworkinghours,intotheindifferenceandmorosenessofmyfixedidea.IfthepagesIhavewrittenduringthemorninghavebeenworkedoffallright,somuchthebetter;ifoneofthemhasremainedindistress,somuchtheworse.Thehouseholdwilllaughorcryaccordingtothewhimofthatall–devouringmonster—Work.No,no!IhavenothingthatIcancallmyown.InmydaysofpovertyIdreamtofrestinthecountry,oftravelindistantlands;andnowthatImightmakethosedreamsreality,theworkthathasbeenbegunkeepsmeshutup.Thereisnochanceofawalkinthemorning’ssun,nochanceofrunningroundtoafriend’shouse,orofamadboutofidleness!Mystrengthofwillhasgonewiththerest;allthishasbecomeahabit;Ihavelockedthedooroftheworldbehindme,andthrownthekeyoutofthewindow.Thereisnolongeranythinginmydenbutworkandmyself—andworkwilldevourme,andthentherewillbenothingleft,nothingatall!’

Hepaused,andsilencereignedoncemoreinthedeepeninggloom.Thenhebeganagainwithaneffort:

‘Andifonewereonlysatisfied,ifoneonlygotsomeenjoymentoutofsuchanigger’slife!Ah!Ishouldliketoknowhowthosefellowsmanagewhosmokecigarettesandcomplacentlystroketheirbeardswhiletheyareatwork.Yes,itappearstomethattherearesomewhofindproductionaneasypleasure,tobesetasideortakenupwithouttheleastexcitement.Theyaredelighted,theyadmirethemselves,theycannotwriteacoupleoflinesbuttheyfindthoselinesofarare,distinguished,matchlessquality.Well,asformyself,Ibringforthinanguish,andmyoffspringseemsahorrortome.Howcanamanbesufficientlywantinginself–doubtastobelieveinhimself?Itabsolutelyamazesmetoseemen,whofuriouslydenytalenttoeverybodyelse,loseallcriticalacumen,allcommon–sense,whenitbecomesaquestionoftheirownbastardcreations.Why,abookisalwaysveryugly.Tolikeitonemustn’thavehadahandinthecookingofit.Isaynothingofthejugsfulofinsultsthatareshowereduponone.Insteadofannoying,theyratherencourageme.Iseemenwhoareupsetbyattacks,whofeelahumiliatingcravingtowinsympathy.Itisasimplequestionoftemperament;somewomenwoulddieiftheyfailedto

please.But,tomythinking,insultisaverygoodmedicinetotake;unpopularityisaverymanlyschooltobebroughtupin.Nothingkeepsoneinsuchgoodhealthandstrengthasthehootingofacrowdofimbeciles.Itsufficesthatamancansaythathehasgivenhislife’sbloodtohiswork;thatheexpectsneitherimmediatejusticenorseriousattention;thatheworkswithouthopeofanykind,andsimplybecausetheloveofworkbeatsbeneathhisskinlikehisheart,irrespectiveofanywillofhisown.Ifhecandoallthis,hemaydieintheeffortwiththeconsolingillusionthathewillbeappreciatedonedayorother.Ah!iftheothersonlyknewhowjauntilyIbeartheweightoftheiranger.Onlythereismyowncholer,whichoverwhelmsme;IfretthatIcannotliveforamomenthappy.WhathoursofmiseryIspend,greatheavens!fromtheverydayIbeginanovel.Duringthefirstchaptersthereisn’tsomuchtrouble.Ihaveplentyofroombeforemeinwhichtodisplaygenius.ButafterwardsIbecomedistracted,andamneversatisfiedwiththedailytask;Icondemnthebookbeforeitisfinished,judgingitinferiortoitselders;andItorturemyselfaboutcertainpages,aboutcertainsentences,certainwords,sothatatlasttheverycommasassumeanuglylook,fromwhichIsuffer.Andwhenitisfinished—ah!whenitisfinished,whatarelief!Nottheenjoymentofthegentlemanwhoexaltshimselfintheworshipofhisoffspring,butthecurseofthelabourerwhothrowsdowntheburdenthathasbeenbreakinghisback.Then,lateron,withanotherbook,itallbeginsafresh;itwillalwaysbeginafresh,andIshalldieunderit,furiouswithmyself,exasperatedatnothavinghadmoretalent,enragedatnotleavinga“work”morecomplete,ofgreaterdimensions—booksuponbooks,apileofmountainheight!AndatmydeathIshallfeelhorribledoubtsaboutthetaskImayhaveaccomplished,askingmyselfwhetherIoughtnottohavegonetotheleftwhenIwenttotheright,andmylastword,mylastgasp,willbetorecommencethewholeoveragain—’

Hewasthoroughlymoved;thewordsstuckinhisthroat;hewasobligedtodrawbreathforamomentbeforedeliveringhimselfofthispassionatecryinwhichallhisimpenitentlyricismtookwing:

Ah,life!asecondspanoflife,whoshallgiveittome,thatworkmayrobmeofitagain—thatImaydieofitoncemore?’

Ithadnowbecomequitedark;themother’srigidsilhouettewasnolongervisible;thehoarsebreathingofthechildsoundedamidsttheobscuritylikeaterribleanddistantsignalofdistress,uprisingfromthestreets.Inthewholestudio,whichhadbecomelugubriouslyblack,thebigcanvasonlyshowedaglimpseofpallidity,alastvestigeofthewaningdaylight.Thenudefigure,similartoanagonisingvision,seemedtobefloatingabout,withoutdefiniteshape,thelegshavingalreadyvanished,onearmbeingalreadysubmerged,andtheonlypartatalldistinctbeingthetrunk,whichshonelikeasilverymoon.

Afteraprotractedpause,Sandozinquired:

‘ShallIgowithyouwhenyoutakeyourpicture?’

GettingnoanswerfromClaude,hefanciedhecouldhearhimcrying.Wasitwiththesameinfinitesadness,thedespairbywhichhehimselfhadbeenstirredjustnow?Hewaitedforamoment,thenrepeatedhisquestion,andatlastthepainter,afterchokingdownasob,stammered:

‘Thanks,thepicturewillremainhere;Isha’n’tsendit.’

‘What?Why,youhadmadeupyourmind?’

‘Yes,yes,Ihadmadeupmymind;butIhadnotseenitasIsawitjustnowinthewaningdaylight.Ihavefailedwithit,failedwithitagain—itstruckmyeyeslikeablow,itwenttomyveryheart.’

Histearsnowflowedslowandscaldinginthegloomthathidhimfromsight.Hehadbeenrestraininghimself,andnowthesilentanguishwhichhadconsumedhimburstforthdespiteallhisefforts.

‘Mypoorfriend,’saidSandoz,quiteupset;‘itishardtotellyouso,butallthesameyouareright,perhaps,indelayingmatterstofinishcertainpartsrathermore.StillIamangrywithmyself,forIshallimaginethatitwasIwhodiscouragedyoubymyeverlastingstupiddiscontentwiththings.’

Claudesimplyanswered:

‘You!whatanidea!Iwasnotevenlisteningtoyou.No;Iwaslooking,andIsaweverythinggohelter–skelterinthatconfoundedcanvas.Thelightwasdyingaway,andallatonce,inthegreyishdusk,thescalessuddenlydroppedfrommyeyes.Thebackgroundaloneispretty;thenudewomanisaltogethertooloud;what’smore,she’soutoftheperpendicular,andherlegsarebadlydrawn.WhenInoticedthat,ah!itwasenoughtokillmethereandthen;Ifeltlifedepartingfromme.Thenthegloomkeptrisingandrising,bringingawhirlingsensation,afounderingofeverything,theearthrollingintochaos,theendoftheworld.AndsoonIonlysawthetrunkwaninglikeasicklymoon.Andlook,look!therenowremainsnothingofher,notaglimpse;sheisdead,quiteblack!’

Infact,thepicturehadatlastentirelydisappeared.Butthepainterhadrisenandcouldbeheardswearinginthedenseobscurity.

‘D—nitall,itdoesn’tmatter,I’llsettoworkatitagain—’

ThenChristine,whohadalsorisenfromherchair,againstwhichhestumbled,interruptedhim,saying:‘Takecare,I’lllightthelamp.’

Shelighteditandcamebacklookingverypale,castingaglanceofhatredandfearatthepicture.Itwasnottogothen?Theabominationwastobeginoncemore!

‘I’llsettoworkatitagain,’repeatedClaude,‘anditshallkillme,itshallkillmywife,mychild,thewholelot;but,byheaven,itshallbeamasterpiece!’

Christinesatdownagain;theyapproachedJacques,whohadthrowntheclothesoffoncemorewithhisfeverishlittlehands.Hewasstillbreathingheavily,lyingquiteinert,hisheadburiedinthepillowlikeaweight,withwhichthebedseemedtocreak.WhenSandozwasonthepointofgoing,heexpressedhisuneasiness.Themotherappearedstupefied;whilethefatherwasalreadyreturningtohispicture,themasterpiecewhichawaitedcreation,andthethoughtofwhichfilledhimwithsuchpassionateillusionsthathegavelessheedtothepainfulrealityofthesufferingsofhischild,thetruelivingfleshofhisflesh.

Onthefollowingmorning,Claudehadjustfinisheddressing,whenheheardChristine

callinginafrightenedvoice.Shealsohadjustwokewithastartfromtheheavysleepwhichhadbenumbedherwhileshesatwatchingthesickchild.

‘Claude!Claude!Oh,look!Heisdead.’

Thepainterrushedforward,withheavyeyes,stumbling,andapparentlyfailingtounderstand,forherepeatedwithanairofprofoundamazement,‘Whatdoyoumeanbysayingheisdead?’

Foramomenttheyremainedstaringwildlyatthebed.Thepoorlittlefellow,withhisdisproportionatehead—theheadoftheprogenyofgenius,exaggeratedastovergeuponcretinism—didnotappeartohavestirredsincethepreviousnight;butnobreathcamefromhismouth,whichhadwidenedandbecomediscoloured,andhisglassyeyeswereopen.Hisfatherlaidhishandsuponhimandfoundhimicycold.

‘Itistrue,heisdead.’

Andtheirstuporwassuchthatforyetanothermomenttheyremainedwiththeireyesdry,simplythunderstruck,asitwere,bytheabruptnessofthatdeathwhichtheyconsideredincredible.

Then,herkneesbendingunderher,Christinedroppeddowninfrontofthebed,burstingintoviolentsobswhichshookherfromheadtofoot,andwringingherhands,whilstherforeheadremainedpressedagainstthemattress.Inthatfirstmomentofhorrorherdespairwasaggravatedaboveallbypoignantremorse—theremorseofnothavingsufficientlycaredforthepoorchild.Formerdaysstartedupbeforeherinarapidvision,eachbringingwithitregretfulnessforunkindwords,deferredcaresses,roughtreatmenteven.Andnowitwasallover;shewouldneverbeabletocompensatetheladfortheaffectionshehadwithheldfromhim.Hewhomshethoughtsodisobedienthadobeyedbuttoowellatlast.Shehadsooftentoldhimwhenatplaytobestill,andnottodisturbhisfatherathiswork,thathewasquietatlast,andforever.Theideasuffocatedher;eachsobdrewfromheradullmoan.

Claudehadbegunwalkingupanddownthestudio,unabletoremainstill.Withhisfeaturesconvulsed,heshedafewbigtears,whichhebrushedawaywiththebackofhishand.Andwheneverhepassedinfrontofthelittlecorpsehecouldnothelpglancingatit.Theglassyeyes,wideopen,seemedtoexerciseaspelloverhim.Atfirstheresisted,butaconfusedideaassumedshapewithinhim,andwouldnotbeshakenoff.Heyieldedtoitatlast,tookasmallcanvas,andbegantopaintastudyofthedeadchild.Forthefirstfewminuteshistearsdimmedhissight,wrappingeverythinginamist;buthekeptwipingthemaway,andperseveredwithhiswork,eventhoughhisbrushshook.Thenthepassionforartdriedhistearsandsteadiedhishand,andinalittlewhileitwasnolongerhisicysonthatlaythere,butmerelyamodel,asubject,thestrangeinterestofwhichstirredhim.Thathugehead,thatwaxyflesh,thoseeyeswhichlookedlikeholesstaringintospace—allexcitedandthrilledhim.Hesteppedback,seemedtotakepleasureinhiswork,andvaguelysmiledatit.

WhenChristinerosefromherknees,shefoundhimthusoccupied.Then,burstingintotearsagain,shemerelysaid:

‘Ah!youcanpainthimnow,he’llneverstiragain.’

ForfivehoursClaudekeptatit,andonthesecondday,whenSandozcamebackwithhimfromthecemetery,afterthefuneral,heshudderedwithpityandadmirationatthesightofthesmallcanvas.Itwasoneofthefinebitsofformerdays,amasterpieceoflimpidityandpower,towhichwasaddedanoteofboundlessmelancholy,theendofeverything—alllifeebbingawaywiththedeathofthatchild.

ButSandoz,whohadburstoutintoexclamationsfallofpraise,wasquitetakenabackonhearingClaudesaytohim:

‘Youaresureyoulikeit?Inthatcase,astheothermachineisn’tready,I’llsendthistotheSalon.’

XONEmorning,asClaude,whohadtaken‘TheDeadChild’tothePalaisdel’Industriethepreviousday,wasroamingroundabouttheParcMonceau,hesuddenlycameuponFagerolles.

‘What!’saidthelatter,cordially,‘isityou,oldfellow?What’sbecomingofyou?Whatareyoudoing?Weseesolittleofeachothernow.’

Then,ClaudehavingmentionedwhathehadsenttotheSalon—thatlittlecanvaswhichhismindwasfullof—Fagerollesadded:

‘Ah!you’vesentsomething;thenI’llgetit“hung”foryou.YouknowthatI’macandidateforthehangingcommitteethisyear.’

Indeed,amidthetumultandeverlastingdiscontentoftheartists,afterattemptsatreform,repeatedascoreoftimesandthenabandoned,theauthoritieshadjustinvestedtheexhibitorswiththeprivilegeofelectingthemembersofthehangingcommittee;andthishadquiteupsettheworldofpaintersandsculptors,aperfectelectoralfeverhadsetin,withallsortsofambitiouscabalsandintrigues—allthelowjobbery,indeed,bywhichpoliticsaredishonoured.

‘I’mgoingtotakeyouwithme,’continuedFagerolles;youmustcomeandseehowI’msettledinmylittlehouse,inwhichyouhaven’tyetsetfoot,inspiteofallyourpromises.It’sthere,hardby,atthecorneroftheAvenuedeVilliers.’

Claude,whosearmhehadgailytaken,wasobligedtofollowhim.Hewasseizedwithafitofcowardice;theideathathisoldchummightgethispicture‘hung’forhimfilledhimwithmingledshameanddesire.Onreachingtheavenue,hestoppedinfrontofthehousetolookatitsfrontage,abitofcoquettish,preciosoarchitecturaltracery—theexactcopyofaRenaissancehouseatBourges,withlatticewindows,astaircasetower,andaroofdeckedwithleadenornaments.Itlookedliketheabodeofaharlot;andClaudewasstruckwithsurprisewhen,onturninground,herecognisedIrmaBecot’sregalmansionjustovertheway.Huge,substantial,almostsevereofaspect,ithadalltheimportanceofapalacecomparedtoitsneighbour,thedwellingoftheartist,whowasobligedtolimithimselftoafancifulnick–nack.

‘Ah!thatIrma,eh?’saidFagerolleswithjustashadeofrespectinhistone.‘Shehasgotacathedralandnomistake!Butcomein.’

TheinteriorofFagerolles’housewasstrangelyandmagnificentlyluxurious.Oldtapestry,oldweapons,aheapofoldfurniture,ChineseandJapanesecuriosweredisplayedevenintheveryhall.Onthelefttherewasadining–room,panelledwithlacquerworkandhavingitsceilingdrapedwithadesignofareddragon.Thentherewasastaircaseofcarvedwoodabovewhichbannersdrooped,whilsttropicalplantsroseuplikeplumes.Overhead,thestudiowasamarvel,thoughrathersmallandwithoutapicturevisible.Thewalls,indeed,wereentirelycoveredwithOrientalhangings,whileatoneendroseupahugechimney–piecewithchimericalmonsterssupportingthetablet,andattheotherextremityappeareda

vastcouchunderatent—thelatterquiteamonument,withlancesupholdingthesumptuousdrapery,aboveacollectionofcarpets,fursandcushionsheapedtogetheralmostonalevelwiththeflooring.

Claudelookedatitall,andtherecametohislipsaquestionwhichheheldback—Wasallthispaidfor?Fagerolles,whohadbeendecoratedwiththeLegionofHonourthepreviousyear,nowasked,itwassaid,tenthousandfrancsforpaintingamereportrait.Naudet,who,afterlaunchinghim,dulyturnedhissuccesstoprofitinamethodicalfashion,neverletoneofhispicturesgoforlessthantwenty,thirty,fortythousandfrancs.Orderswouldhavefallenonthepainter’sshouldersasthickashail,ifhehadnotaffectedthedisdain,thewearinessofthemanwhoseslightestsketchesarefoughtfor.Andyetallthisdisplayofluxurysmackedofindebtedness,therewasonlysomuchpaidonaccounttotheupholsterers;allthemoney—themoneywonbyluckystrokesason‘Change—slippedthroughtheartist’sfingers,andwasspentwithouttraceofitremaining.Moreover,Fagerolles,stillinthefullflushofhissuddengoodfortune,didnotcalculateorworry,beingconfidentthathewouldalwayssellhisworksathigherandhigherprices,andfeelinggloriousatthehighpositionhewasacquiringincontemporaryart.

Eventually,Claudeespiedalittlecanvasonanebonyeasel,drapedwithredplush.Exceptingarosewoodtubecaseandboxofcrayons,forgottenonanarticleoffurniture,nothingremindingoneoftheartisticprofessioncouldbeseenlyingabout.

‘Veryfinelytreated,’saidClaude,wishingtobeamiable,ashestoodinfrontofthelittlecanvas.‘AndisyourpicturefortheSalonsent?’

‘Ah!yes,thankheavens!WhatanumberofpeopleIhadhere!Aperfectprocessionwhichkeptmeonmylegsfrommorningtilleveningduringaweek.Ididn’twanttoexhibitit,asitlowersonetodoso,andNaudetalsoopposedit.Butwhatwouldyouhavedone?Iwassobeggedandprayed;alltheyoungfellowswanttosetmeonthecommittee,sothatImaydefendthem.Oh!mypictureissimpleenough—Icallit“APicnic.”Thereareacoupleofgentlemenandthreeladiesundersometrees—guestsatsomechateau,whohavebroughtacollationwiththemandareeatingitinaglade.You’llsee,it’sratheroriginal.’

Hespokeinahesitatingmanner,andwhenhiseyesmetthoseofClaude,whowaslookingathimfixedly,helostcountenancealtogether,andjokedaboutthelittlecanvasontheeasel.

‘That’sadaubNaudetaskedmefor.Oh!I’mnotignorantofwhatIlack—alittleofwhatyouhavetoomuchof,oldman.YouknowthatI’mstillyourfriend;why,Idefendedyouonlyyesterdaywithsomepainters.’

HetappedClaudeontheshoulders,forhehaddivinedhisoldmaster’ssecretcontempt,andwishedtowinhimbackbyhisold–timecaresses—allthewheedlingpracticesofahussy.VerysincerelyandwithasortofanxiousdeferenceheagainpromisedClaudethathewoulddoeverythinginhispowertofurtherthehangingofhispicture,‘TheDeadChild.’

However,somepeoplearrived;morethanfifteenpersonscameinandwentoffinlessthananhour—fathersbringingyoungpupils,exhibitorsanxioustosayagoodwordontheirownbehalf,friendswhowantedtobarterinfluence,evenwomenwhoplacedtheirtalentsundertheprotectionoftheircharms.Andoneshouldhaveseenthepainterplayhis

partasacandidate,shakinghandsmostlavishly,sayingtoonevisitor:‘Yourpicturethisyearissopretty,itpleasesmesomuch!’thenfeigningastonishmentwithanother:‘What!youhaven’thadamedalyet?’andrepeatingtoallofthem:‘Ah!IfIbelongedtothecommittee,I’dmakethemwalkstraight.’Hesenteveryoneawaydelighted,closedthedoorbehindeachvisitorwithanairofextremeamiability,throughwhich,however,therepiercedthesecretsneerofanex–loungeronthepavement.

‘Yousee,eh?’hesaidtoClaude,atamomentwhentheyhappenedtobeleftalone.‘WhatalotoftimeIlosewiththoseidiots!’

Thenheapproachedthelargewindow,andabruptlyopenedoneofthecasements;andononeofthebalconiesofthehouseoverthewayawomancladinalacedressing–gowncouldbedistinguishedwavingherhandkerchief.Fagerollesonhissidewavedhishandthreetimesinsuccession.Thenbothwindowswereclosedagain.

ClaudehadrecognisedIrma;andamidthesilencewhichfellFagerollesquietlyexplainedmatters:

‘It’sconvenient,yousee,onecancorrespond.Wehaveacompletesystemoftelegraphy.Shewantstospeaktome,soImustgo—’

SinceheandIrmahadresidedintheavenue,theymet,itwassaid,ontheiroldfooting.Itwasevenassertedthathe,so‘cute,’sowell–acquaintedwithParisianhumbug,lethimselfbefleecedbyher,bledateverymomentofsomegoodroundsum,whichshesenthermaidtoaskfor—nowtopayatradesman,nowtosatisfyawhim,oftenfornothingatall,orratherforthesolepleasureofemptyinghispockets;andthispartlyexplainedhisembarrassedcircumstances,hisindebtedness,whicheverincreaseddespitethecontinuousriseinthequotationsofhiscanvases.

Claudehadputonhishatagain.Fagerolleswasshufflingaboutimpatiently,lookingnervouslyatthehouseovertheway.

‘Idon’tsendyouoff,butyouseeshe’swaitingforme,’hesaid,‘Well,it’sunderstood,youraffair’ssettled—thatis,unlessI’mnotelected.CometothePalaisdel’Industrieontheeveningthevoting–papersarecounted.Oh!therewillbearegularcrush,quitearumpus!Still,youwillalwayslearnifyoucanrelyonme.’

Atfirst,Claudeinwardlysworethathewouldnottroubleaboutit.Fagerolles’protectionweighedheavilyuponhim;andyet,inhisheartofhearts,hereallyhadbutonefear,thattheshiftyfellowwouldnotkeephispromise,butwouldultimatelybetakenwithafitofcowardiceattheideaofprotectingadefeatedman.However,onthedayofthevoteClaudecouldnotkeepstill,butwentandroamedabouttheChampsElyseesunderthepretenceoftakingalongwalk.Hemightaswellgothereaselsewhere,forwhilewaitingfortheSalonhehadaltogetherceasedwork.Hehimselfcouldnotvote,astodosoitwasnecessarytohavebeen‘hung’onatleastoneoccasion.However,herepeatedlypassedbeforethePalaisdel’Industrie,[11]thefootpavementinfrontofwhichinterestedhimwithitsbustlingaspect,itsprocessionofartistelectors,whommenindirtyblousescaughtholdof,shoutingtothemthetitlesoftheirlistsofcandidates—listssomethirtyinnumberemanatingfromeverypossiblecoterie,andrepresentingeverypossibleopinion.TherewasthelistofthestudiosoftheSchoolofArts,theliberallist,thelistofthe

uncompromisingradicalpainters,theconciliatorylist,theyoungpainters’list,eventheladies’list,andsoforth.Thescenesuggestedalltheturmoilatthedoorofanelectoralpollingboothonthemorrowofariot.

Atfouro’clockintheafternoon,whenthevotingwasover,Claudecouldnotresistafitofcuriositytogoandhavealook.Thestaircasewasnowfree,andwhoeverchosecouldenter.Upstairs,hecameuponthehugegallery,overlookingtheChampsElysees,whichwassetasideforthehangingcommittee.Atable,fortyfeetlong,filledthecentreofthisgallery,andentiretreeswereburninginthemonumentalfireplaceatoneendofit.Somefourorfivehundredelectors,whohadremainedtoseethevotescounted,stoodthere,mingledwithfriendsandinquisitivestrangers,talking,laughing,andsettingquiteastormlooseundertheloftyceiling.Aroundthetable,partiesofpeoplewhohadvolunteeredtocountthevoteswerealreadysettledandatwork;thereweresomefifteenofthesepartiesinall,eachcomprisingachairmanandtwoscrutineers.Threeorfourmoreremainedtobeorganised,andnobodyelseofferedassistance;infact,everyoneturnedawayinfearofthecrushinglabourwhichwouldrivetthemorezealouspeopletothespotfarintothenight.

ItpreciselyhappenedthatFagerolles,whohadbeeninthethickofitsincethemorning,wasgesticulatingandshouting,tryingtomakehimselfheardabovethehubbub.

‘Come,gentlemen,weneedonemoremanhere!Come,somewillingperson,overhere!’

Andatthatmoment,perceivingClaude,hedartedforwardandforciblydraggedhimoff.

‘Ah!asforyou,youwilljustobligemebysittingdownthereandhelpingus!It’sforthegoodcause,dashitall!’

Claudeabruptlyfoundhimselfchairmanofoneofthecountingcommittees,andbegantoperformhisfunctionswithallthegravityofatimidman,secretlyexperiencingagooddealofemotion,asifthehangingofhiscanvaswoulddependupontheconscientiousnessheshowedinhiswork.Hecalledoutthenamesinscribeduponthevoting–papers,whichwerepassedtohiminlittlepackets,whilethescrutineers,onsheetsofpaperpreparedforthepurpose,notedeachsuccessivevotethateachcandidateobtained.Andallthiswentonamidstamostfrightfuluproar,twentyandthirtynamesbeingcalledoutatthesametimebydifferentvoices,abovethecontinuousrumblingofthecrowd.AsClaudecouldneverdoanythingwithoutthrowingpassionintoit,hewaxedexcited,becamedespondentwheneveravoting–paperdidnotbearFagerolles’name,andgrewhappyassoonashehadtoshoutoutthatnameoncemore.Moreover,heoftentastedthatdelight,forhisfriendhadmadehimselfpopular,showinghimselfeverywhere,frequentingthecafeswhereinfluentialgroupsofartistsassembled,evenventuringtoexpoundhisopinionsthere,andbindinghimselftoyoungartists,withoutneglectingtobowverylowtothemembersoftheInstitute.Thustherewasageneralcurrentofsympathyinhisfavour.Fagerolleswas,sotosay,everybody’sspoiltchild.

Nightcameonataboutsixo’clockthatrainyMarchday.Theassistantsbroughtlamps;andsomemistrustfulartists,who,gloomyandsilent,werewatchingthecountingaskance,drewnearer.Othersbegantoplayjokes,imitatedthecriesofanimals,orattemptedatyrolienne.Butitwasonlyateighto’clock,whenacollationofcoldmeatandwinewasserved,thatthegaietyreacheditsclimax.Thebottleswerehastilyemptied,themenstuffedthemselveswithwhatevertheywereluckyenoughtogetholdof,andtherewasa

free–and–easykindofKermesseinthathugehallwhichthelogsinthefireplacelitupwithaforge–likeglow.Thentheyallsmoked,andthesmokesetakindofmistaroundtheyellowlightfromthelamps,whilstonthefloortrailedallthespoiltvoting–papersthrownawayduringthepolling;indeed,quitealayerofdirtypaper,togetherwithcorks,breadcrumbs,andafewbrokenplates.Theheelsofthoseseatedatthetabledisappearedamidstthislitter.Reservewascastaside;alittlesculptorwithapalefaceclimbeduponachairtoharanguetheassembly,andapainter,withstiffmoustachesunderahooknose,bestrodeachairandgalloped,bowing,roundthetable,inmimicryoftheEmperor.

Littlebylittle,however,agoodmanygrewtiredandwentoff.Ateleveno’clocktherewerenotmorethanacoupleofhundredpersonspresent.Pastmidnight,however,somemorepeoplearrived,loungersindress–coatsandwhiteties,whohadcomefromsometheatreorsoireeandwishedtolearntheresultofthevotingbeforeallParisknewit.Reportersalsoappeared;andtheycouldbeseendartingonebyoneoutoftheroomassoonasapartialresultwascommunicatedtothem.

Claude,hoarsebynow,stillwentoncallingnames.Thesmokeandtheheatbecameintolerable,asmelllikethatofacow–houserosefromthemuddylitteronthefloor.Oneo’clock,twoo’clockinthemorningstruck,andhewasstillunfoldingvoting–papers,theconscientiousnesswhichhedisplayeddelayinghimtosuchapointthattheotherpartieshadlongsincefinishedtheirwork,whilehiswasstillamazeoffigures.Atlastalltheadditionswerecentralisedandthedefiniteresultproclaimed.Fagerolleswaselected,comingfifteenthamongforty,orfiveplacesaheadofBongrand,whohadbeenacandidateonthesamelist,butwhosenamemusthavebeenfrequentlystruckout.AnddaylightwasbreakingwhenClaudereachedhomeintheRueTourlaque,feelingbothwornoutanddelighted.

Then,foracoupleofweekshelivedinastateofanxiety.AdozentimeshehadtheideaofgoingtoFagerolles’forinformation,butafeelingofshamerestrainedhim.Besides,asthecommitteeproceededinalphabeticalorder,nothingperhapswasyetdecided.However,oneevening,ontheBoulevarddeClichy,hefelthisheartthumpashesawtwobroadshoulders,withwhoselollopingmotionhewaswellacquainted,comingtowardshim.

TheyweretheshouldersofBongrand,whoseemedembarrassed.Hewasthefirsttospeak,andsaid:

‘Youknowmattersaren’tprogressingverywelloveryonderwiththosebrutes.Buteverythingisn’tlost.FagerollesandIareonthewatch.Still,youmustrelyonFagerolles;asforme,mydearfellow,Iamawfullyafraidofcompromisingyourchances.’

Totellthetruth,therewasconstanthostilitybetweenBongrandandthePresidentofthehangingcommittee,Mazel,afamousmasteroftheSchoolofArts,andthelastrampartoftheelegant,buttery,conventionalstyleofart.Althoughtheycalledeachother‘dearcolleague’andmadeagreatshowofshakinghands,theirhostilityhadburstforththeveryfirstday;oneofthemcouldneveraskfortheadmissionofapicturewithouttheotheronevotingforitsrejection.Fagerolles,whohadbeenelectedsecretary,had,onthecontrary,madehimselfMazel’samuser,hisvice,andMazelforgavehisoldpupil’sdefection,soskilfullydidtherenegadeflatterhim.Moreover,theyoungmaster,aregularturncoat,ashiscomradessaid,showedevenmoreseveritythanthemembersoftheInstitutetowards

audaciousbeginners.Heonlybecamelenientandsociablewhenhewantedtogetapictureaccepted,onthoseoccasionsshowinghimselfextremelyfertileindevices,intriguingandcarryingthevotewithallthesuppledeftnessofaconjurer.

Thecommitteeworkwasreallyahardtask,andevenBongrand’sstronglegsgrewtiredofit.Itwascutouteverydaybytheassistants.Anendlessrowoflargepicturesrestedonthegroundagainstthehandrails,allalongthefirst–floorgalleries,rightroundthePalace;andeveryafternoon,atoneo’clockprecisely,thefortycommittee–men,headedbytheirpresident,whowasequippedwithabell,startedoffonapromenade,untilallthelettersinthealphabet,servingasexhibitors’initials,hadbeenexhausted.Theygavetheirdecisionsstanding,andtheworkwasgotthroughasfastaspossible,theworstcanvasesbeingrejectedwithoutgoingtothevote.Attimes,however,discussionsdelayedtheparty,therecameatenminutes’quarrel,andsomepicturewhichcausedadisputewasreservedfortheeveningrevision.Twomen,holdingacordsomethirtyfeetlong,keptitstretchedatadistanceoffourpacesfromthelineofpictures,soastorestrainthecommittee–men,whokeptonpushingeachotherintheheatoftheirdispute,andwhosestomachs,despiteeverything,wereeverpressingagainstthecord.Behindthecommitteemarchedseventymuseum–keepersinwhiteblouses,executingevolutionsundertheordersofabrigadier.Ateachdecisioncommunicatedtothembythesecretaries,theysortedthepictures,theacceptedpaintingsbeingseparatedfromtherejectedones,whichwerecarriedofflikecorpsesafterabattle.Andtheroundlastedduringtwolonghours,withoutamoment’srespite,andwithouttherebeingasinglechairtositupon.Thecommittee–menhadtoremainontheirlegs,trampingoninatiredwayamidicydraughts,whichcompelledeventheleastchillyamongthemtoburytheirnosesinthedepthsoftheirfur–linedovercoats.

Thenthethreeo’clocksnackprovedverywelcome:therewashalfanhour’srestatabuffet,whereclaret,chocolate,andsandwichescouldbeobtained.Itwastherethatthemarketofmutualconcessionswasheld,thatthebarteringofinfluenceandvoteswascarriedon.Inorderthatnobodymightbeforgottenamidthehailstormofapplicationswhichfelluponthecommittee–men,mostofthemcarriedlittlenote–books,whichtheyconsulted;andtheypromisedtovoteforcertainexhibitorswhomacolleagueprotectedonconditionthatthiscolleaguevotedfortheonesinwhomtheywereinterested.Others,however,takingnopartintheseintrigues,eitherfromausterityorindifference,finishedtheintervalinsmokingacigaretteandgazingvacantlyaboutthem.

Thentheworkbeganagain,butmoreagreeably,inagallerywheretherewerechairs,andeventableswithpensandpaperandink.Allthepictureswhoseheightdidnotreachfourfeettenincheswerejudgedthere—‘passedontheeasel,’astheexpressiongoes—beingranged,tenortwelvetogether,onakindoftrestlecoveredwithgreenbaize.Agoodmanycommittee–menthengrewabsent–minded,severalwrotetheirletters,andthepresidenthadtogetangrytoobtainpresentablemajorities.Sometimesagustofpassionsweptby;theyalljostledeachother;thevotes,usuallygivenbyraisingthehand,tookplaceamidsuchfeverishexcitementthathatsandwalking–stickswerewavedintheairabovethetumultuoussurgingofheads.

Anditwasthere,‘ontheeasel,’that‘TheDeadChild’atlastmadeitsappearance.DuringthepreviousweekFagerolles,whosepocket–bookwasfullofmemoranda,hadresortedtoallkindsofcomplicatedbarteringinordertoobtainvotesinClaude’sfavour;butitwasa

difficultbusiness,itdidnottallywithhisotherengagements,andheonlymetwithrefusalsassoonashementionedhisfriend’sname.Hecomplained,moreover,thathecouldgetnohelpfromBongrand,whodidnotcarryapocket–book,andwhowassoclumsy,too,thathespoiltthebestcausesbyhisoutburstsofunseasonablefrankness.AscoreoftimesalreadywouldFagerolleshaveforsakenClaude,haditnotbeenforhisobstinatedesiretotryhispoweroverhiscolleaguesbyaskingfortheadmittanceofaworkbyLantier,whichwasareputedimpossibility.However,peopleshouldseeifhewasn’tyetstrongenoughtoforcethecommitteeintocompliancewithhiswishes.Moreover,perhapsfromthedepthsofhisconsciencetherecameacryforjustice,anunconfessedfeelingofrespectforthemanwhoseideashehadstolen.

Asithappened,Mazelwasinafrightfullybadhumourthatday.Attheoutsetofthesittingthebrigadierhadcometohim,saying:‘Therewasamistakeyesterday,MonsieurMazel.Ahors–concours[12]picturewasrejected.Youknow,No.2520,anudewomanunderatree.’

Infact,onthedaybefore,thispaintinghadbeenconsignedtothegraveamidunanimouscontempt,nobodyhavingnoticedthatitwastheworkofanoldclassicalpainterhighlyrespectedbytheInstitute;andthebrigadier’sfright,andtheamusingcircumstanceofapicturehavingthusbeencondemnedbymistake,enlivenedtheyoungermembersofthecommitteeandmadethemsneerinaprovokingmanner.

Mazel,whodetestedsuchmishaps,whichherightlyfeltweredisastrousfortheauthorityoftheSchoolofArts,madeanangrygesture,anddrilysaid:

‘Well,fishitoutagain,andputitamongtheadmittedpictures.Itisn’tsosurprising,therewasanintolerablenoiseyesterday.Howcanonejudgeanythinglikethatatagallop,whenonecan’tevenobtainsilence?’

Heranghisbellfuriously,andadded:

‘Come,gentlemen,everythingisready—alittlegoodwill,ifyouplease.’

Unluckily,afreshmisfortuneoccurredassoonasthefirstpaintingsweresetonthetrestle.OnecanvasamongothersattractedMazel’sattention,sobaddidheconsiderit,sosharpintoneastomakeone’sveryteethgrate.Ashissightwasfailinghim,heleantforwardtolookatthesignature,mutteringthewhile:‘Who’sthepig—’

Buthequicklydrewhimselfup,quiteshockedathavingreadthenameofoneofhisfriends,anartistwho,likehimself,wasarampartofhealthyprinciples.Hopingthathehadnotbeenoverheard,hethereuponcalledout:

‘Superb!No.1,eh,gentlemen?’

No.1wasgranted—theformulaofadmissionwhichentitledthepicturetobehungontheline.Only,someofthecommittee–menlaughedandnudgedeachother,atwhichMazelfeltveryhurt,andbecameveryfierce.

Moreover,theyallmadesuchblundersattimes.Agreatmanyofthemeasedtheirfeelingsatthefirstglance,andthenrecalledtheirwordsassoonastheyhaddecipheredthesignature.Thisendedbymakingthemcautious,andsowithfurtiveglancestheymadesureoftheartist’snamebeforeexpressinganyopinion.Besides,wheneveracolleague’s

work,somefellowcommittee–man’ssuspicious–lookingcanvas,wasbroughtforward,theytooktheprecautiontowarneachotherbymakingsignsbehindthepainter’sback,asiftosay,‘Takecare,nomistake,mind;it’shispicture.’

Fagerolles,despitehiscolleagues’fidgetynerves,carriedthedayonafirstoccasion.Itwasaquestionofadmittingafrightfulportraitpaintedbyoneofhispupils,whosefamily,averywealthyone,receivedhimonafootingofintimacy.ToachievethishehadtakenMazelononesideinordertotrytomovehimwithasentimentalstoryaboutanunfortunatefatherwiththreedaughters,whowerestarving.Butthepresidentlethimselfbeentreatedforalongwhile,sayingthatamanshouldn’twastehistimepaintingwhenhewasdyingforlackoffood,andthatheoughttohavealittlemoreconsiderationforhisthreedaughters!However,intheresult,Mazelraisedhishand,alone,withFagerolles.Someoftheothersthenangrilyprotested,andeventwomembersoftheInstituteseemeddisgusted,whereuponFagerolleswhisperedtotheminalowkey:

‘It’sforMazel!Hebeggedmetovote.Thepainter’sarelativeofhis,Ithink;atallevents,hegreatlywantsthepicturetobeaccepted.’

Atthisthetwoacademicianspromptlyraisedtheirhands,andalargemajoritydeclareditselfinfavouroftheportrait.

Butallatoncelaughter,witticisms,andindignantcriesrangout:‘TheDeadChild’hadjustbeenplacedonthetrestle.WeretheytohavetheMorguesenttothemnow?saidsome.Andwhiletheoldmendrewbackinalarm,theyoungeronesscoffedatthechild’sbighead,whichwasplainlythatofamonkeywhohaddiedfromtryingtoswallowagourd.

Fagerollesatonceunderstoodthatthegamewaslost.Atfirsthetriedtospiritthevoteawaybyajoke,inaccordancewithhisskilfultactics:

‘Come,gentlemen,anoldcombatant—’

Butfuriousexclamationscuthimshort.Oh,no!notthatone.Theyknewhim,thatoldcombatant!Amadmanwhohadbeenperseveringinhisobstinacyforfifteenyearspast—aproud,stuck–upfellowwhoposedforbeingagenius,andwhohadtalkedaboutdemolishingtheSalon,withoutevensendingapicturethatitwaspossibletoaccept.Alltheirhatredofindependentoriginality,ofthecompetitionofthe‘shopovertheway,’whichfrightenedthem,ofthatinvinciblepowerwhichtriumphsevenwhenitisseeminglydefeated,resoundedintheirvoices.No,no;awaywithit!

ThenFagerolleshimselfmadethemistakeofgettingirritated,yieldingtotheangerhefeltatfindingwhatlittlerealinfluencehepossessed.

‘Youareunjust;atleast,beimpartial,’hesaid.

Thereuponthetumultreachedaclimax.Hewassurroundedandjostled,armswavedabouthiminthreateningfashion,andangrywordswereshotoutathimlikebullets.

‘Youdishonourthecommittee,monsieur!’

‘Ifyoudefendthatthing,it’ssimplytogetyournameinthenewspapers!’

‘Youaren’tcompetenttospeakonthesubject!’

ThenFagerolles,besidehimself,losingeventhepliancyofhisbanteringdisposition,retorted:

‘I’mascompetentasyouare.’

‘Shutup!’resumedacomrade,averyirasciblelittlepainterwithafaircomplexion.‘Yousurelydon’twanttomakeusswallowsuchaturnipasthat?’

Yes,yes,aturnip!Theyallrepeatedthewordintonesofconviction—thatwordwhichtheyusuallycastattheveryworstsmudges,atthepale,cold,glairypaintingofdaubers.

‘Allright,’atlastsaidFagerolles,clenchinghisteeth.‘Idemandthevote.’

Sincethediscussionhadbecomeenvenomed,Mazelhadbeenringinghisbell,extremelyflushedatfindinghisauthorityignored.

‘Gentlemen—come,gentlemen;it’sextraordinarythatonecan’tsettlematterswithoutshouting—Ibegofyou,gentlemen—’

Atlastheobtainedalittlesilence.Inreality,hewasnotabad–heartedman.Whyshouldnottheyadmitthatlittlepicture,althoughhehimselfthoughtitexecrable?Theyadmittedsomanyothers!

‘Come,gentlemen,thevoteisaskedfor.’

Hehimselfwas,perhaps,abouttoraisehishand,whenBongrand,whohadhithertoremainedsilent,withthebloodrisingtohischeeksintheangerhewastryingtorestrain,abruptlywentofflikeapop–gun,mostunseasonablygivingventtotheprotestationsofhisrebelliousconscience.

‘But,curseitall!therearenotfouramonguscapableofturningoutsuchapieceofwork!’

Somegruntsspedaround;butthesledge–hammerblowhadcomeuponthemwithsuchforcethatnobodyanswered.

‘Gentlemen,thevoteisaskedfor,’curtlyrepeatedMazel,whohadturnedpale.

Histonesufficedtoexplaineverything:itexpressedallhislatenthatredofBongrand,thefiercerivalrythatlayhiddenundertheirseeminglygood–naturedhandshakes.

Thingsrarelycametosuchapassasthis.Theyalmostalwaysarrangedmatters.Butinthedepthsoftheirravagedpridetherewerewoundswhichalwaysbled;theysecretlywagedduelswhichtorturedthemwithagony,despitethesmileupontheirlips.

BongrandandFagerollesaloneraisedtheirhands,and‘TheDeadChild,’beingrejected,couldonlyperhapsberescuedatthegeneralrevision.

Thisgeneralrevisionwastheterriblepartofthetask.Although,aftertwentydays’continuoustoil,thecommitteealloweditselfforty–eighthours’rest,soastoenablethekeeperstopreparethefinalwork,itcouldnothelpshudderingontheafternoonwhenitcameupontheassemblageofthreethousandrejectedpaintings,fromamongwhichithadtorescueasmanycanvasesaswerenecessaryforthethenregulationtotaloftwothousandfivehundredadmittedworkstobecomplete.Ah!thosethreethousandpictures,placedoneaftertheotheralongsidethewallsofallthegalleries,includingtheouterone,depositedalsoevenonthefloors,andlyingtherelikestagnantpools,betweenwhichthe

attendantsdevisedlittlepaths—theywerelikeaninundation,adeluge,whichroseup,streamedoverthewholePalaisdel’Industrie,andsubmergeditbeneaththemurkyflowofallthemediocrityandmadnesstobefoundintheriverofArt.Andbutasingleafternoonsittingwasheld,fromonetillseveno’clock—sixhoursofwildgallopingthroughamaze!Atfirsttheyheldoutagainstfatigueandstrovetokeeptheirvisionclear;buttheforcedmarchsoonmadetheirlegsgiveway,theireyesightwasirritatedbyallthedancingcolours,andyetitwasstillnecessarytomarchon,tolookandjudge,evenuntiltheybrokedownwithfatigue.Byfouro’clockthemarchwaslikearout—thescatteringofadefeatedarmy.Somecommittee–men,outofbreath,draggedthemselvesalongveryfarintherear;others,isolated,lostamidtheframes,followedthenarrowpaths,renouncingallprospectofemergingfromthem,turningroundandroundwithoutanyhopeofevergettingtotheend!Howcouldtheybejustandimpartial,goodheavens?Whatcouldtheyselectfromamidthatheapofhorrors?Withoutclearlydistinguishingalandscapefromaportrait,theymadeupthenumbertheyrequiredinpot–luckfashion.Twohundred,twohundredandforty—anothereight,theystillwantedeightmore.Thatone?No,thatother.Asyoulike!Seven,eight,itwasover!Atlasttheyhadgottotheend,andtheyhobbledaway,saved—free!

Inonegalleryafreshscenedrewthemoncemoreround‘TheDeadChild,’lyingontheflooramongotherwaifs.Butthistimetheyjested.Ajokerpretendedtostumbleandsethisfootinthemiddleofthecanvas,whileotherstrottedalongthesurroundinglittlepaths,asiftryingtofindoutwhichwasthepicture’stopandwhichitsbottom,anddeclaringthatitlookedmuchbettertopsy–turvy.

Fagerolleshimselfalsobegantojoke.

‘Come,alittlecourage,gentlemen;gotheround,examineit,you’llberepaidforyourtrouble.Reallynow,gentlemen,bekind,rescueit;praydothatgoodaction!’

Theyallgrewmerryinlisteningtohim,butwithcruellaughtertheyrefusedmoreharshlythanever.‘No,no,never!’

‘Willyoutakeitforyour“charity”?’criedacomrade.

Thiswasacustom;thecommittee–menhadarighttoa‘charity’;eachofthemcouldselectacanvasamongthelot,nomatterhowexecrableitmightbe,anditwasthereuponadmittedwithoutexamination.Asarule,thebountyofthisadmissionwasbestoweduponpoorartists.Thefortypaintingsthusrescuedattheeleventhhour,werethoseofthebeggarsatthedoor—thosewhomoneallowedtoglidewithemptystomachstothefarendofthetable.

‘Formy“charity,”’repeatedFagerolles,feelingverymuchembarrassed;‘thefactis,Imeanttotakeanotherpaintingformy“charity.”Yes,someflowersbyalady—’

Hewasinterruptedbyloudjeers.Wasshepretty?Infrontofthewomen’spaintingsthegentlemenwereparticularlypronetosneer,neverdisplayingtheleastgallantry.AndFagerollesremainedperplexed,forthe‘lady’inquestionwasapersonwhomIrmatookaninterestin.Hetrembledattheideaoftheterriblescenewhichwouldensueshouldhefailtokeephispromise.Anexpedientoccurredtohim.

‘Well,andyou,Bongrand?Youmightverywelltakethisfunnylittledeadchildforyour

charity.’

Bongrand,woundedtotheheart,indignantatallthebartering,wavedhislongarms:

‘What!I?Iinsultarealpainterinthatfashion?Lethimbeprouder,dashit,andneversendanythingtotheSalon!’

Then,astheothersstillwentonsneering,Fagerolles,desirousthatvictoryshouldremaintohim,madeuphismind,withaproudair,likeamanwhoisconsciousofhisstrengthanddoesnotfearbeingcompromised.

‘Allright,I’lltakeitformy“charity,”’hesaid.

Theothersshoutedbravo,andgavehimabanteringovation,withaseriesofprofoundbowsandnumeroushandshakes.Allhonourtothebravefellowwhohadthecourageofhisopinions!Andanattendantcarriedawayinhisarmsthepoorderided,jolted,soiledcanvas;andthusitwasthatapicturebythepainterof‘IntheOpenAir’wasatlastacceptedbythehangingcommitteeoftheSalon.

OntheverynextmorninganotefromFagerollesapprisedClaude,inacoupleoflines,thathehadsucceededingetting‘TheDeadChild’admitted,butthatithadnotbeenmanagedwithouttrouble.Claude,despitethegladnessofthetidings,feltapangathisheart;thenotewassobrief,andwaswritteninsuchaprotecting,pityingstyle,thatallthehumiliatingfeaturesofthebusinesswereapparenttohim.Foramomenthefeltsorryoverthisvictory,somuchsothathewouldhavelikedtotakehisworkbackandhideit.Thenhisdelicacyoffeeling,hisartisticprideagaingaveway,somuchdidprotractedwaitingforsuccessmakehiswretchedheartbleed.Ah!tobeseen,tomakehiswaydespiteeverything!Hehadreachedthepointwhenconsciencecapitulates;heoncemorebegantolongfortheopeningoftheSalonwithallthefeverishimpatienceofabeginner,againlivinginastateofillusionwhichshowedhimacrowd,apressofmovingheadsacclaiminghiscanvas.

BydegreesParishadmadeitthefashiontopatronise‘varnishingday’—thatdayformerlysetasideforpaintersonlytocomeandfinishthetoiletsoftheirpictures.Now,however,itwaslikeafeastofearlyfruit,oneofthosesolemnitieswhichsetthecityagogandattractatremendouscrowd.Foraweekpastthenewspaperpress,thestreets,andthepublichadbelongedtotheartists.TheyheldParisintheirgrasp;theonlymatterstalkedofwerethemselves,theirexhibits,theirsayingsordoings—infact,everythingconnectedwiththem.Itwasoneofthoseinfatuationswhichatlastdrawbandsofcountryfolk,commonsoldiers,andevennursemaidstothegalleriesondaysofgratuitousadmission,insuchwisethatfiftythousandvisitorsarerecordedonsomefineSundays,anentirearmy,alltherearbattalionsoftheignorantlowerorders,followingsociety,andmarching,withdilatedeyes,throughthatvastpictureshop.

Thatfamous‘varnishingday’atfirstfrightenedClaude,whowasintimidatedbythethoughtofallthefinepeoplewhomthenewspapersspokeabout,andheresolvedtowaitforthemoredemocraticdayoftherealinauguration.HeevenrefusedtoaccompanySandoz.Buthewasconsumedbysuchafever,thatafterallhestartedoffabruptlyateighto’clockinthemorning,barelytakingtimetoeatabitofbreadandcheesebeforehand.Christine,wholackedthecouragetogowithhim,kissedhimagainandagain,feelinganxiousandmoved.

‘Mind,mydear,don’tworry,whateverhappens,’saidshe.

ClaudefeltsomewhatoppressedasheenteredtheGalleryofHonour.Hisheartwasbeatingfastfromtheswiftnesswithwhichhehadclimbedthegrandstaircase.TherewasalimpidMayskyoutofdoors,andthroughthelinenawnings,stretchedundertheglazedroof,therefilteredabrightwhitelight,whiletheopendoorways,communicatingwiththegardengallery,admittedmoistgustsofquiveringfreshness.ForamomentClaudedrewbreathinthatatmospherewhichwasalreadytaintedwithavaguesmellofvarnishandtheodourofthemuskwithwhichthewomenpresentperfumedthemselves.Ataglancehetookstockofthepicturesonthewalls:ahugemassacresceneinfrontofhim,streamingwithcarmine;acolossal,pallid,religiouspictureonhisleft;aGovernmentorder,thecommonplacedelineationofsomeofficialfestivity,ontheright;andthenavarietyofportraits,landscapes,andindoorscenes,allglaringsharplyamidthefreshgildingoftheirframes.However,thefearwhichheretainedofthefolksusuallypresentatthissolemnityledhimtodirecthisglancesuponthegraduallyincreasingcrowd.Onacircularsetteeinthecentreofthegallery,fromwhichsprangasheafoftropicalfoliage,theresatthreeladies,threemonstrouslyfatcreatures,attiredinanabominablefashion,whohadsettledtheretoindulgeinawholeday’sbackbiting.Behindhimheheardsomebodycrushingharshsyllablesinahoarsevoice.ItwasanEnglishmaninacheck–patternjacket,explainingthemassacrescenetoayellowwomanburiedinthedepthsofatravellingulster.Thereweresomevacantspaces;groupsofpeopleformed,scattered,andformedagainfurtheron;allheadswereraised;themencarriedwalking–sticksandhadovercoatsontheirarms,thewomenstrolledaboutslowly,showingdistantprofilesastheystoppedbeforethepictures;andClaude’sartisticeyewascaughtbytheflowersintheirhatsandbonnets,whichseemedveryloudintintamidthedarkwavesofthemen’ssilkhats.Heperceivedthreepriests,twocommonsoldierswhohadfoundtheirwaytherenooneknewwhence,someendlessprocessionsofgentlemendecoratedwiththeribbonoftheLegionofHonour,andtroopsofgirlsandtheirmothers,whoconstantlyimpededthecirculation.However,agoodmanyofthesepeoplekneweachother;thereweresmilesandbowsfromafar,attimesarapidhandshakeinpassing.Andconversationwascarriedoninadiscreettoneofvoice,abovewhichrosethecontinuoustrampingoffeet.

ThenClaudebegantolookforhisownpicture.Hetriedtofindhiswaybymeansoftheinitiallettersinscribedabovetheentrancesofthegalleries,butmadeamistake,andwentthroughthoseonthelefthand.Therewasasuccessionofopenentrances,aperspectiveofoldtapestrydoor–hangings,withglimpsesofthedistantpictures.Hewentasfarasthegreatwesterngallery,andcamebackbytheparallelsuiteofsmallergallerieswithoutfindingthatallottedtotheletterL.AndwhenhereachedtheGalleryofHonouragain,thecrowdhadgreatlyincreased.Infact,itwasnowscarcelypossibleforonetomoveaboutthere.Beingunabletoadvance,helookedaround,andrecognisedanumberofpainters,thatnationofpainterswhichwasathometherethatday,andwasthereforedoingthehonoursofitsabode.ClaudeparticularlyremarkedanoldfriendoftheBoutinStudio—ayoungfellowconsumedwiththedesiretoadvertisehimself,whohadbeenworkingforamedal,andwhowasnowpouncinguponallthevisitorspossessedofanyinfluenceandforciblytakingthemtoseehispictures.Thentherewasacelebratedandwealthypainterwhoreceivedhisvisitorsinfrontofhisworkwithasmileoftriumphonhislips,showinghimselfcompromisinglygallantwiththeladies,whoformedquiteacourtaroundhim.

Andtherewerealltheothers:therivalswhoexecratedoneanother,althoughtheyshoutedwordsofpraiseinfullvoices;thesavagefellowswhocovertlywatchedtheircomrades’successfromthecornerofadoorway;thetimidoneswhomonecouldnotforanempireinducetopassthroughthegallerywheretheirpictureswerehung;thejokerswhohidthebittermortificationoftheirdefeatunderanamusingwitticism;thesincereoneswhowereabsorbedincontemplation,tryingtounderstandthevariousworks,andalreadyinfancydistributingthemedals.Andthepainters’familieswerealsothere.Onecharmingyoungwomanwasaccompaniedbyacoquettishlybedeckedchild;asour–looking,skinnymatronofmiddle–classbirthwasflankedbytwouglyurchinsinblack;afatmotherhadfounderedonabenchamidquiteatribeofdirtybrats;andaladyofmaturecharms,stillverygood–looking,stoodbesidehergrown–updaughter,quietlywatchingahussypass—thishussybeingthefather’smistress.Andthentherewerealsothemodels—womenwhopulledoneanotherbythesleeve,whoshowedoneanothertheirownformsinthevariouspictorialnudities,talkingveryloudlythewhileanddressedwithouttaste,spoilingtheirsuperbfiguresbysuchwretchedgownsthattheyseemedtobehump–backedbesidethewell–dresseddolls—thoseParisienneswhoowedtheirfiguresentirelytotheirdressmakers.

WhenClaudegotfreeofthecrowd,heenfiladedthelineofdoorwaysontherighthand.Hisletterwasonthatside;buthesearchedthegalleriesmarkedwithanLwithoutfindinganything.Perhapshiscanvashadgoneastrayandservedtofillupavacancyelsewhere.Sowhenhehadreachedthelargeeasterngallery,hesetoffalonganumberofotherlittleones,asecludedsuitevisitedbyveryfewpeople,wherethepicturesseemedtofrownwithboredom.Andthereagainhefoundnothing.Bewildered,distracted,heroamedabout,wentontothegardengallery,searchingamongthesuperabundantexhibitswhichoverflowedthere,pallidandshiveringinthecrudelight;andeventually,afterotherdistantexcursions,hetumbledintotheGalleryofHonourforthethirdtime.

Therewasnowquiteacrushthere.AllthosewhoinanywaycreateastirinPariswereassembledtogether—thecelebrities,thewealthy,theadored,talent,moneyandgrace,themastersofromance,ofthedramaandofjournalism,clubmen,racingmenandspeculators,womenofeverycategory,hussies,actressesandsocietybelles.AndClaude,angeredbyhisvainsearch,grewamazedatthevulgarityofthefacesthusmassedtogether,attheincongruityofthetoilets—butafewofwhichwereelegant,whilesomanywerecommonlooking—atthelackofmajestywhichthatvaunted‘society’displayed,tosuchapoint,indeed,thatthefearwhichhadmadehimtremblewaschangedintocontempt.Werethesethepeople,then,whoweregoingtojeerathispicture,provideditwerefoundagain?Twolittlereporterswithfaircomplexionswerecompletingalistofpersonswhosenamestheyintendedtomention.Acriticpretendedtotakesomenotesonthemarginofhiscatalogue;anotherwasholdingforthinprofessor’sstyleinthecentreofapartyofbeginners;athird,allbyhimself,withhishandsbehindhisback,seemedrootedtoonespot,crushingeachworkbeneathhisaugustimpassibility.AndwhatespeciallystruckClaudewasthejostlingflock–likebehaviourofthepeople,theirbandedcuriosityinwhichtherewasnothingyouthfulorpassionate,thebitternessoftheirvoices,thewearinesstobereadontheirfaces,theirgeneralappearanceofsuffering.Envywasalreadyatwork;therewasthegentlemanwhomakeshimselfwittywiththeladies;theonewho,withoutaword,looks,givesaterribleshrugoftheshoulders,andthengoesoff;andtherewerethetwowho

remainforaquarterofanhourleaningoverthehandrail,withtheirnosesclosetoalittlecanvas,whisperingverylowandexchangingtheknowingglancesofconspirators.

ButFagerolleshadjustappeared,andamidthecontinuousebbandflowofthegroupsthereseemedtobenooneleftbuthim.Withhishandoutstretched,heseemedtoshowhimselfeverywhereatthesametime,lavishlyexertinghimselftoplaythedoublepartofayoung‘master’andaninfluentialmemberofthehangingcommittee.Overwhelmedwithpraise,thanks,andcomplaints,hehadananswerreadyforeverybodywithoutlosingaughtofhisaffability.Sinceearlymorninghehadbeenresistingtheassaultofthepettypaintersofhissetwhofoundtheirpicturesbadlyhung.Itwastheusualscamperofthefirstmoment,everybodylookingforeverybodyelse,rushingtoseeoneanotherandburstingintorecriminations—noisy,interminablefury.Eitherthepicturewastoohighup,orthelightdidnotfalluponitproperly,orthepaintingsnearitdestroyeditseffect;infact,sometalkedofunhookingtheirworksandcarryingthemoff.Onetallthinfellowwasespeciallytenacious,goingfromgallerytogalleryinpursuitofFagerolles,whovainlyexplainedthathewasinnocentinthematterandcoulddonothing.Numericalorderwasfollowed,thepicturesforeachwallweredepositedonthefloorbelowandthenhungupwithoutanybodybeingfavoured.Hecarriedhisobligingnesssofarastopromisehisinterventionwhenthegallerieswererearrangedafterthemedalshadbeenawarded;buteventhenhedidnotmanagetocalmthetallthinfellow,whostillcontinuedpursuinghim.

ClaudeforamomentelbowedhiswaythroughthecrowdtogoandaskFagerolleswherehispicturehadbeenhung.Butonseeinghisfriendsosurrounded,priderestrainedhim.Wastherenotsomethingabsurdandpainfulaboutthisconstantneedofanother’shelp?Besides,hesuddenlyreflectedthathemusthaveskippedawholesuiteofgalleriesontheright–handside;and,indeed,therewerefreshleaguesofpaintingthere.Heendedbyreachingagallerywhereastiflingcrowdwasmassedinfrontofalargepicturewhichfilledthecentralpanelofhonour.Atfirsthecouldnotseeit,therewassuchasurgingseaofshoulders,suchathickwallofheads,sucharampartofhats.Peoplerushedforwardwithgapingadmiration.Atlength,however,bydintofrisingontiptoe,heperceivedthemarvel,andrecognisedthesubject,bywhathadbeentoldhim.

ItwasFagerolles’picture.Andinthat‘Picnic’hefoundhisownforgottenwork,‘IntheOpenAir,’thesamelightkeyofcolour,thesameartisticformula,butsoftened,trickishlyrendered,spoiltbyskin–deepelegance,everythingbeing‘arranged’withinfiniteskilltosatisfythelowidealofthepublic.Fagerolleshadnotmadethemistakeofstrippinghisthreewomen;but,cladintheaudacioustoiletsofwomenofsociety,theyshowednolittleoftheirpersons.Asforthetwogallantgentlemeninsummerjacketsbesidethem,theyrealisedtheidealofeverythingmostdistingue;whileafaroffafootmanwaspullingahamperofftheboxofalandaudrawnupbehindthetrees.Thewholeofit,thefigures,thedrapery,thebitsofstilllifeoftherepast,stoodoutgailyinfullsunlightagainstthedarkenedfoliageofthebackground;andthesupremeskillofthepainterlayinhispretendedaudacity,inamendacioussemblanceofforcibletreatmentwhichjustsufficedtosendthemultitudeintoecstasies.Itwaslikeastorminacream–jug!

Claude,beingunabletoapproach,listenedtotheremarksaroundhim.Atlasttherewasamanwhodepictedrealtruth!Hedidnotpresshispointslikethosefoolsofthenewschool;heknewhowtoconveyeverythingwithoutshowinganything.Ah!theartof

knowingwheretodrawtheline,theartoflettingthingsbeguessed,therespectduetothepublic,theapprovalofgoodsociety!Andwithalsuchdelicacy,suchcharmandart!Hedidnotunseasonablydeliverhimselfofpassionatethingsofexuberantdesign;no,whenhehadtakenthreenotesfromnature,hegavethosethreenotes,nothingmore.Anewspapermanwhoarrivedwentintorapturesoverthe‘Picnic,’andcoinedtheexpression‘averyParisianstyleofpainting.’Itwasrepeated,andpeoplenolongerpassedwithoutdeclaringthatthepicturewas‘veryParisian’indeed.

Allthosebentshoulders,allthoseadmiringremarksrisingfromaseaofspines,endedbyexasperatingClaude;andseizedwithalongingtoseethefacesofthefolkwhocreatedsuccess,hemanoeuvredinsuchawayastoleanhisbackagainstthehandrailhardby.Fromthatpoint,hehadthepublicinfrontofhiminthegreylightfilteringthroughthelinenawningwhichkeptthecentreofthegalleryinshade;whilstthebrighterlight,glidingfromtheedgesoftheblinds,illuminedthepaintingsonthewallswithawhiteflow,inwhichthegildingoftheframesacquiredawarmsunshinytint.Claudeatoncerecognisedthepeoplewhohadformerlyderidedhim—ifthesewerenotthesame,theywereatleasttheirrelatives—serious,however,andenraptured,theirappearancegreatlyimprovedbytheirrespectfulattention.Theevillook,theweariness,whichhehadatfirstremarkedontheirfaces,asenviousbiledrewtheirskintogetheranddyedityellow,disappearedherewhiletheyenjoyedthetreatofanamiablelie.Twofatladies,open–mouthed,wereyawningwithsatisfaction.Someoldgentlemenopenedtheireyeswidewithaknowingair.Ahusbandexplainedthesubjecttohisyoungwife,whojoggedherchinwithaprettymotionoftheneck.Therewaseverykindofmarvelling,beatifical,astonished,profound,gay,austere,amidstunconscioussmilesandlanguidposturesofthehead.Thementhrewbacktheirblacksilkhats,theflowersinthewomen’sbonnetsglidedtothenapesoftheirnecks.Andallthefaces,afterremainingmotionlessforamoment,werethendrawnasideandreplacedbyothersexactlylikethem.

ThenClaude,stupefiedbythattriumph,virtuallyforgoteverythingelse.Thegallerywasbecomingtoosmall,freshbandsofpeopleconstantlyaccumulatedinsideit.Therewerenomorevacantspaces,astherehadbeenearlyinthemorning;nomorecoolwhiffsrosefromthegardenamidtheambientsmellofvarnish;theatmospherewasnowbecominghotandbitterwiththeperfumesscatteredbythewomen’sdresses.Beforelongthepredominantodoursuggestedthatofawetdog.Itmusthavebeenrainingoutside;oneofthosesuddenspringshowershadnodoubtfallen,forthelastarrivalsbroughtmoisturewiththem—theirclotheshungaboutthemheavilyandseemedtosteamassoonastheyencounteredtheheatofthegallery.And,indeed,patchesofdarknesshadforamomentbeenpassingabovetheawningoftheroof.Claude,whoraisedhiseyes,guessedthatlargecloudsweregallopingonwardlashedbythenorthwind,thatdrivingrainwasbeatingupontheglasspanes.Moire–likeshadowsdartedalongthewalls,allthepaintingsbecamedim,thespectatorsthemselveswereblendedinobscurityuntilthecloudwascarriedaway,whereuponthepaintersawtheheadsagainemergefromthetwilight,everagapewithidioticrapture.

ButtherewasanothercupofbitternessinreserveforClaude.Ontheleft–handpanel,facingFagerolles’,heperceivedBongrand’spicture.Andinfrontofthatpaintingtherewasnocrushwhatever;thevisitorswalkedbywithanairofindifference.YetitwasBongrand’ssupremeeffort,thethrusthehadbeentryingtogiveforyears,alastworkconceivedinhisobstinatecravingtoprovethevirilityofhisdecline.Thehatredhe

harbouredagainstthe‘VillageWedding,’thatfirstmasterpiecewhichhadweigheduponallhistoilsomeafter–life,hadimpelledhimtoselectacontrastingbutcorrespondingsubject:the‘VillageFuneral’—thefuneralofayounggirl,withrelativesandfriendsstragglingamongfieldsofryeandoats.Bongrandhadwrestledwithhimself,sayingthatpeopleshouldseeifheweredonefor,iftheexperienceofhissixtyyearswerenotworthalltheluckydashofhisyouth;andnowexperiencewasdefeated,thepicturewasdestinedtobeamournfulfailure,likethesilentfallofanoldman,whichdoesnotevenstaypassers–byintheironwardcourse.Therewerestillsomemasterlybits,thechoirboyholdingthecross,thegroupofdaughtersoftheVirgincarryingthebier,whosewhitedressesandruddyfleshfurnishedaprettycontrastwiththeblackSundaytoggeryoftherusticmourners,amongallthegreenstuff;onlythepriestinhisalb,thegirlcarryingtheVirgin’sbanner,thefamilyfollowingthebody,weredrilyhandled;thewholepicture,infact,wasdispleasinginitsveryscienceandtheobstinatestiffnessofitstreatment.Onefoundinitafatal,unconsciousreturntothetroubledromanticismwhichhadbeenthestarting–pointofthepainter’scareer.Andtheworstofthebusinesswasthattherewasjustificationfortheindifferencewithwhichthepublictreatedthatartofanotherperiod,thatcookedandsomewhatdullstyleofpainting,whichnolongerstoppedoneonone’sway,sincegreatblazesoflighthadcomeintovogue.

ItpreciselyhappenedthatBongrandenteredthegallerywiththehesitatingstepofatimidbeginner,andClaudefeltapangathisheartashesawhimgiveaglanceathisneglectedpictureandthenanotheratFagerolles’,whichwasbringingonariot.Atthatmomenttheoldpaintermusthavebeenacutelyconsciousofhisfall.Ifhehadsofarbeendevouredbythefearofslowdecline,itwasbecausehestilldoubted;andnowheobtainedsuddencertainty;hewassurvivinghisreputation,histalentwasdead,hewouldnevermoregivebirthtoliving,palpitatingworks.Hebecameverypale,andwasabouttoturnandflee,whenChambouvard,thesculptor,enteringthegallerybytheotherdoor,followedbyhiscustomarytrainofdisciples,calledtohimwithoutcaringafigforthepeoplepresent:

‘Ah!youhumbug,Icatchyouatit—admiringyourself!’

He,Chambouvard,exhibitedthatyearanexecrable‘ReapingWoman,’oneofthosestupidlyspoiltfigureswhichseemedlikehoaxesonhispart,sounworthytheywereofhispowerfulhands;buthewasnonethelessradiant,feelingcertainthathehadturnedoutyetanothermasterpiece,andpromenadinghisgod–likeinfallibilitythroughthecrowdwhichhedidnothearlaughingathim.

Bongranddidnotanswer,butlookedathimwitheyesscorchedbyfever.

‘Andmymachinedownstairs?’continuedthesculptor.‘Haveyouseenit?Thelittlefellowsofnowadaysmaytryiton,butwearetheonlymasters—we,oldFrance!’

Andthereuponhewentoff,followedbyhiscourtandbowingtotheastonishedpublic.

‘Thebrute!’mutteredBongrand,suffocatingwithgrief,asindignantasattheoutburstofsomelow–bredfellowbesideadeathbed.

HeperceivedClaude,andapproachedhim.Wasitnotcowardlytofleefromthisgallery?Andhedeterminedtoshowhiscourage,hisloftysoul,intowhichenvyhadneverentered.

‘OurfriendFagerolleshasasuccessandnomistake,’hesaid.‘IshouldbeahypocriteifI

wentintoecstasiesoverhispicture,whichIscarcelylike;buthehimselfisreallyaverynicefellowindeed.Besides,youknowhowheexertedhimselfonyourbehalf.’

Claudewastryingtofindawordofadmirationforthe‘VillageFuneral.’

‘Thelittlecemeteryinthebackgroundissopretty!’hesaidatlast.‘Isitpossiblethatthepublic—’

ButBongrandinterruptedhiminaroughvoice:

‘Nocomplimentsofcondolence,myfriend,eh?Iseeclearenough.’

Atthismomentsomebodynoddedtotheminafamiliarway,andClauderecognisedNaudet—aNaudetwhohadgrownandexpanded,gildedbythesuccessofhiscolossalstrokesofbusiness.Ambitionwasturninghishead;hetalkedaboutsinkingalltheotherpicturedealers;hehadbuilthimselfapalace,inwhichheposedasthekingofthemarket,centralisingmasterpieces,andthereopeninglargeartshopsofthemodernstyle.Oneheardajingleofmillionsontheverythresholdofhishall;heheldexhibitionsthere,evenranupothergallerieselsewhere;andeachtimethatMaycameround,heawaitedthevisitsoftheAmericanamateurswhomhechargedfiftythousandfrancsforapicturewhichhehimselfhadpurchasedfortenthousand.Moreover,helivedinprincelystyle,withawifeandchildren,amistress,acountryestateinPicardy,andextensiveshootinggrounds.Hisfirstlargeprofitshadcomefromtheriseinvalueofworksleftbyillustriousartists,nowdefunct,whosetalenthadbeendeniedwhiletheylived,suchasCourbet,Millet,andRousseau;andthishadendedbymakinghimdisdainanypicturesignedbyastillstrugglingartist.However,ominousrumourswerealreadyincirculation.Asthenumberofwell–knownpictureswaslimited,andthenumberofamateurscouldbarelybeincreased,atimeseemedtobecomingwhenbusinesswouldproveverydifficult.Therewastalkofasyndicate,ofanunderstandingwithcertainbankerstokeepupthepresenthighprices;theexpedientofsimulatedsaleswasresortedtoattheHotelDrouot—picturesbeingboughtinatabigfigurebythedealerhimself—andbankruptcyseemedtobeattheendofallthatStockExchangejobbery,aperfecttumblehead–over–heelsafteralltheexcessive,mendaciousagiotage.

‘Good–day,dearmaster,’saidNaudet,whohaddrawnnear.‘Soyouhavecome,likeeverybodyelse,toseemyFagerolles,eh?’

HenolongertreatedBongrandinthewheedling,respectfulmannerofyore.AndhespokeofFagerollesasofapainterbelongingtohim,ofaworkmantowhomhepaidwages,andwhomheoftenscolded.ItwashewhohadsettledtheyoungartistintheAvenuedeVilliers,compellinghimtohavealittlemansionofhisown,furnishingitashewouldhavefurnishedaplaceforahussy,runninghimintodebtwithsuppliesofcarpetsandnick–nacks,sothathemightafterwardsholdhimathismercy;andnowhebegantoaccusehimoflackingorderlinessandseriousness,ofcompromisinghimselflikeafeather–brain.Takethatpicture,forinstance,aseriouspainterwouldneverhavesentittotheSalon;itmadeastir,nodoubt,andpeopleeventalkedofitsobtainingthemedalofhonour;butnothingcouldhaveaworseeffectonhighprices.WhenamanwantedtogetholdoftheYankees,heoughttoknowhowtoremainathome,likeanidolinthedepthsofhistabernacle.

‘Youmaybelievemeornot,mydearfellow,’hesaidtoBongrand,‘butIwouldhave

giventwentythousandfrancsoutofmypockettopreventthosestupidnewspapersfrommakingallthisrowaboutmyFagerollesthisyear.’

Bongrand,who,despitehissufferings,waslisteningbravely,smiled.

‘Inpointoffact,’hesaid,‘theyareperhapscarryingindiscretiontoofar.IreadanarticleyesterdayinwhichIlearntthatFagerollesatetwoboiledeggseverymorning.’

Helaughedoverthecoarsepufferywhich,afterafirstarticleonthe‘youngmaster’s’picture,asyetseenbynobody,hadforaweekpastkeptallParisoccupiedabouthim.Thewholefraternityofreportershadbeencampaigning,strippingFagerollestotheskin,tellingtheirreadersallabouthisfather,theartisticzincmanufacturer,hiseducation,thehouseinwhichheresided,howhelived,evenrevealingthecolourofhissocks,andmentioningahabithehadofpinchinghisnose.Andhewasthepassionofthehour,the‘youngmaster’accordingtothetastesoftheday,onewhohadbeenluckyenoughtomissthePrixdeRome,andbreakoffwiththeSchoolofArts,whoseprinciples,however,heretained.Afterall,thesuccessofthatstyleofpaintingwhichaimsmerelyatapproximatingreality,notatrenderingitinallitstruth,wasthefortuneofaseasonwhichthewindbringsandblowsawayagain,amerewhimonthepartofthegreatlunaticcity;thestiritcausedwaslikethatoccasionedbysomeaccident,whichupsetsthecrowdinthemorningandisforgottenbynightamidstgeneralindifference.

However,Naudetnoticedthe‘VillageFuneral.’

‘Hullo!that’syourpicture,eh?’hesaid.‘Soyouwantedtogiveacompaniontothe“Wedding”?Well,Ishouldhavetriedtodissuadeyou!Ah!the“Wedding”!the“Wedding”!’

Bongrandstilllistenedtohimwithoutceasingtosmile.Barelyatwingeofpainpassedoverhistremblinglips.Heforgothismasterpieces,thecertaintyofleavinganimmortalname,hewasonlycognisantofthevoguewhichthatyoungster,unworthyofcleaninghispalette,hadsosuddenlyandeasilyacquired,thatvoguewhichseemedtobepushinghim,Bongrand,intooblivion—hewhohadstruggledfortenyearsbeforehehadsucceededinmakinghimselfknown.Ah!whenthenewgenerationsburyaman,iftheyonlyknewwhattearsofbloodtheymakehimshedindeath!

However,ashehadremainedsilent,hewasseizedwiththefearthathemighthavelethissufferingbedivined.Washefallingtothebasenessofenvy?Angerwithhimselfmadehimraisehishead—amanshoulddieerect.Andinsteadofgivingtheviolentanswerwhichwasrisingtohislips,hesaidinafamiliarway:

‘Youareright,Naudet,IshouldhavedonebetterifIhadgonetobedonthedaywhentheideaofthatpictureoccurredtome.’

‘Ah!thereheis;excuseme!’criedthedealer,makingoff.

ItwasFagerollesshowinghimselfattheentranceofthegallery.Hediscreetlystoodtherewithoutentering,carryinghisgoodfortunewiththeeaseofamanwhoknowswhatheisabout.Besides,hewaslookingforsomebody;hemadeasigntoayoungman,andgavehimananswer,afavourableone,nodoubt,fortheotherbrimmedoverwithgratitude.Thentwootherpersonssprangforwardtocongratulatehim;awomandetainedhim,showinghim,withamartyr’sgesture,abitofstilllifehunginadarkcorner.Andfinally

hedisappeared,aftercastingbutoneglanceatthepeopleinrapturesbeforehispicture.

Claude,whohadlookedandlistened,wasoverwhelmedwithsadness.Thecrushwasstillincreasing,henowhadnoughtbeforehimbutfacesgapingandsweatingintheheat,whichhadbecomeintolerable.Abovethenearershouldersroseothers,andsoonandsoonasfarasthedoor,whencethosewhocouldseenothingpointedoutthepaintingtoeachotherwiththetipsoftheirumbrellas,fromwhichdrippedthewaterleftbytheshowersoutside.AndBongrandremainedthereoutofpride,erectindefeat,firmlyplantedonhislegs,thoseofanoldcombatant,andgazingwithlimpideyesuponungratefulParis.Hewishedtofinishlikeabraveman,whosekindnessofheartisboundless.Claude,whospoketohimwithoutreceivinganyanswer,sawverywellthattherewasnothingbehindthatcalm,gayface;themindwasabsent,ithadflownawayinmourning,bleedingwithfrightfultorture;andthereupon,fullofalarmandrespect,hedidnotinsist,butwentoff.AndBongrand,withhisvacanteyes,didnotevennoticehisdeparture.

AnewideahadjustimpelledClaudeonwardthroughthecrowd.Hewaslostinwondermentatnothavingbeenabletodiscoverhispicture.Butnothingcouldbemoresimple.Wastherenotsomegallerywherepeoplegrinned,somecornerfullofnoiseandbanter,somegatheringofjestingspectators,insultingapicture?Thatpicturewouldassuredlybehis.HecouldstillhearthelaughterofthebygoneSalonoftheRejected.Andnowatthedoorofeachgalleryhelistenedtoascertainifitweretherethathewasbeinghissed.

However,ashefoundhimselfoncemoreintheeasterngallery,thathallwheregreatartagonises,thatdepositorywherevast,cold,andgloomyhistoricalandreligiouscompositionsareaccumulated,hestarted,andremainedmotionlesswithhiseyesturnedupward.Hehadpassedthroughthatgallerytwicealready,andyetthatwascertainlyhispictureupyonder,sohighupthathehesitatedaboutrecognisingit.Itlooked,indeed,solittle,poisedlikeaswallowatthecornerofaframe—themonumentalframeofanimmensepaintingfive–and–thirtyfeetlong,representingtheDeluge,aswarmingofyellowfiguresturningtopsy–turvyinwaterofthehueofwinelees.Ontheleft,moreover,therewasapitiableashenportraitofageneral;ontherightacolossalnymphinamoonlitlandscape,thebloodlesscorpseofamurderedwomanrottingawayonsomegrass;andeverywherearoundthereweremournfulviolet–shadedthings,mixedupwithacomicsceneofsomebibulousmonks,andan‘OpeningoftheChamberofDeputies,’withawholepageofwritingonagildedcartouch,bearingtheheadsofthebetter–knowndeputies,drawninoutline,togetherwiththeirnames.Andhighup,highup,amidthoselividneighbours,thelittlecanvas,over–coarseintreatment,glaredferociouslywiththepainfulgrimaceofamonster.

Ah!‘TheDeadChild.’Atthatdistancethewretchedlittlecreaturewasbutaconfusedlumpofflesh,thelifelesscarcaseofsomeshapelessanimal.Wasthatswollen,whitenedheadaskullorastomach?Andthosepoorhandstwistedamongthebedclothes,likethebentclawsofabirdkilledbycold!Andthebeditself,thatpallidityofthesheets,belowthepallidityofthelimbs,allthatwhitelookingsosad,thosetintsfadingawayasiftypicalofthesupremeend!Afterwards,however,onedistinguishedthelighteyesstaringfixedly,onerecognisedachild’shead,anditallseemedtosuggestsomediseaseofthebrain,profoundlyandfrightfullypitiful.

Claudeapproached,andthendrewbacktoseethebetter.Thelightwassobadthatrefractionsdartedfromallpointsacrossthecanvas.HowtheyhadhunghislittleJacques!nodoubtoutofdisdain,orperhapsfromshame,soastogetridofthechild’slugubriousugliness.ButClaudeevokedthelittlefellowsuchashehadoncebeen,andbeheldhimagainoveryonderinthecountry,sofreshandpinky,asherolledaboutinthegrass;thenintheRuedeDouai,growingpaleandstupidbydegrees,andthenintheRueTourlaque,nolongerabletocarryhishead,anddyingonenight,allalone,whilehismotherwasasleep;andhebeheldheralso,thatmother,thesadwomanwhohadstoppedathome,toweepthere,nodoubt,asshewasnowinthehabitofdoingforentiredays.Nomatter,shehaddonerightinnotcoming;‘twastoomournful—theirlittleJacques,alreadycoldinhisbed,castononesidelikeapariah,andsobrutalisedbythedancinglightthathisfaceseemedtobelaughing,distortedbyanabominablegrin.

ButClaudesufferedstillmorefromthelonelinessofhiswork.Astonishmentanddisappointmentmadehimlookforthecrowd,therushwhichhehadanticipated.Whywashenothooted?Ah!theinsultsofyore,themocking,theindignationthathadrenthisheart,butmadehimlive!No,nothingmore,notevenapassingexpectoration:thiswasdeath.Thevisitorsfiledrapidlythroughthelonggallery,seizedwithboredom.Thereweremerelysomepeopleinfrontofthe‘OpeningoftheChamber,’wheretheycollectedtoreadtheinscriptions,andshoweachotherthedeputies’heads.Atlast,hearingsomelaughterbehindhim,heturnedround;butnobodywasjeering,somevisitorsweresimplymakingmerryoverthetipsymonks,thecomicsuccessoftheSalon,whichsomegentlemenexplainedtosomeladies,declaringthatitwasbrilliantlywitty.AndallthesepeoplepassedbeneathlittleJacques,andnotaheadwasraised,notasoulevenknewthathewasupthere.

However,thepainterhadagleamofhope.Onthecentralsettee,twopersonages,oneofthemfatandtheotherthin,andbothofthemdecoratedwiththeLegionofHonour,sattalking,recliningagainstthevelvet,andlookingatthepicturesinfrontofthem.Claudedrewnearthemandlistened.

‘AndIfollowedthem,’saidthefatfellow.‘TheywentalongtheRueSt.Honore,theRueSt.Roch,theRuedelaChausseed’Antin,theRuelaFayette—’

‘Andyouspoketothem?’askedthethinman,whoappearedtobedeeplyinterested.

‘No,Iwasafraidofgettinginarage.’

Claudewentoffandreturnedonthreeoccasions,hisheartbeatingfasteachtimethatsomevisitorstoppedshortandglancedslowlyfromthelinetotheceiling.Hefeltanunhealthylongingtohearoneword,butone.Whyexhibit?Howfathompublicopinion?Anythingratherthansuchtorturingsilence!Andhealmostsuffocatedwhenhesawayoungmarriedcoupleapproach,thehusbandagood–lookingfellowwithlittlefairmoustaches,thewife,charming,withthedelicateslimfigureofashepherdessinDresdenchina.Shehadperceivedthepicture,andaskedwhatthesubjectwas,stupefiedthatshecouldmakenothingoutofit;andwhenherhusband,turningovertheleavesofthecatalogue,hadfoundthetitle,‘TheDeadChild,’shedraggedhimaway,shuddering,andraisingthiscryofaffright:

‘Oh,thehorror!Thepoliceoughtn’ttoallowsuchhorrors!’

ThenClauderemainedthere,erect,unconsciousandhaunted,hiseyesraisedonhigh,amidthecontinuousflowofthecrowdwhichpassedon,quiteindifferent,withoutoneglanceforthatuniquesacredthing,visibletohimalone.AnditwastherethatSandozcameuponhim,amidthejostling.

Thenovelist,whohadbeenstrollingaboutalone—hiswifehavingremainedathomebesidehisailingmother—hadjuststoppedshort,heart–rent,belowthelittlecanvas,whichhehadespiedbychance.Ah!howdisgustedhefeltwithlife!Heabruptlylivedthedaysofhisyouthoveragain.HerecalledthecollegeofPlassans,hisfreakswithClaudeonthebanksoftheViorne,theirlongexcursionsundertheburningsun,andalltheflamingoftheirearlyambition;and,lateron,whentheyhadlivedsidebyside,herememberedtheirefforts,theircertaintyofcomingglory,thatfineirresistible,immoderateappetitethathadmadethemtalkofswallowingParisatonebite!Howmanytimes,atthatperiod,hadheseeninClaudeagreatman,whoseunbridledgeniuswouldleavethetalentofallothersfarbehindintherear!FirsthadcomethestudiooftheImpassedesBourdonnais;later,thestudiooftheQuaideBourbon,withdreamsofvastcompositions,projectsbigenoughtomaketheLouvreburst;and,meanwhile,thestrugglewasincessant;thepainterlabouredtenhoursaday,devotinghiswholebeingtohiswork.Andthenwhat?Aftertwentyyearsofthatpassionatelifeheendedthus—hefinishedwiththatpoor,sinisterlittlething,whichnobodynoticed,whichlookedsodistressfullysadinitsleper–likesolitude!Somuchhopeandtorture,alifetimespentinthetoilofcreating,tocometothat,tothat,goodGod!

SandozrecognisedClaudestandingby,andfraternalemotionmadehisvoicequakeashesaidtohim:

‘What!soyoucame?Whydidyourefusetocallforme,then?’

Thepainterdidnotevenapologise.Heseemedverytired,overcomewithsomniferousstupor.

‘Well,don’tstayhere,’addedSandoz.‘It’spasttwelveo’clock,andyoumustlunchwithme.SomepeopleweretowaitformeatLedoyen’s;butIshallgivethemthego–by.Let’sgodowntothebuffet;weshallpickupourspiritsthere,eh,oldfellow?’

AndthenSandozledhimaway,holdinghisarm,pressingit,warmingit,andtryingtodrawhimfromhismournfulsilence.

‘Come,dashitall!youmustn’tgivewaylikethat.Althoughtheyhavehungyourpicturebadly,itisallthesamesuperb,arealbitofgenuinepainting.Oh!Iknowthatyoudreamtofsomethingelse!Butyouarenotdeadyet,itwillbeforlateron.And,justlook,yououghttobeproud,forit’syouwhoreallytriumphattheSalonthisyear.Fagerollesisn’ttheonlyonewhopillagesyou;theyallimitateyounow;youhaverevolutionisedthemsinceyour“OpenAir,”whichtheylaughedsomuchabout.Look,look!there’san“openair”effect,andthere’sanother,andhereandthere—theyalldoit.’

HewavedhishandtowardsthepicturesasheandClaudepassedalongthegalleries.Inpointoffact,thedashofclearlight,introducedbydegreesintocontemporarypainting,hadfullyburstforthatlast.ThedingySalonsofyore,withtheirpitchycanvases,hadmadewayforaSalonfullofsunshine,gayasspringitself.Itwasthedawn,theaurorawhichhadfirstgleamedattheSalonoftheRejected,andwhichwasnowrisingandrejuvenatingartwithafine,diffuselight,fullofinfiniteshades.Onallsidesyoufound

Claude’sfamous‘blueytinge,’evenintheportraitsandthegenrescenes,whichhadacquiredthedimensionsandtheseriouscharacterofhistoricalpaintings.Theoldacademicalsubjectshaddisappearedwiththecookedjuicesoftradition,asifthecondemneddoctrinehadcarrieditspeopleofshadowsawaywithit;rareweretheworksofpureimagination,thecadaverousnuditiesofmythologyandcatholicism,thelegendarysubjectspaintedwithoutfaith,theanecdoticbitsdestituteoflife—infact,allthebric–a–bracoftheSchoolofArtsusedupbygenerationsoftrickstersandfools;andtheinfluenceofthenewprinciplewasevidentevenamongthoseartistswholingeredovertheantiquerecipes,evenamongtheformermasterswhohadnowgrownold.Theflashofsunlighthadpenetratedtotheirstudios.Fromafar,ateverystepyoutook,yousawapaintingtranspiercethewallandform,asitwere,awindowopenuponNature.Soonthewallsthemselveswouldfall,andNaturewouldwalkin;forthebreachwasabroadone,andtheassaulthaddrivenroutineawayinthatgaybattlewagedbyaudacityandyouth.

‘Ah!yourlotisafineone,allthesame,oldfellow!’continuedSandoz.‘Theartofto–morrowwillbeyours;youhavemadethemall.’

Claudethereuponopenedhismouth,and,withanairofgloomybrutality,saidinalowvoice:

‘WhatdoIcareifIhavemadethemall,whenIhaven’tmademyself?Seehere,it’stoobiganaffairforme,andthat’swhatstiflesme.’

Hemadeagesturetofinishexpressinghisthought,hisconsciousnessofhisinabilitytoprovethegeniusoftheformulahehadbroughtwithhim,thetorturehefeltatbeingmerelyaprecursor,theonewhosowstheideawithoutreapingtheglory,hisgriefatseeinghimselfpillaged,devouredbymenwhoturnedouthastywork,byawholeflightoffellowswhoscatteredtheireffortsandloweredthenewformofart,beforeheoranotherhadfoundstrengthenoughtoproducethemasterpiecewhichwouldmaketheendofthecenturyadateinart.

ButSandozprotested,thefuturelayopen.Then,todivertClaude,hestoppedhimwhilecrossingtheGalleryofHonourandsaid:

‘Justlookatthatladyinbluebeforethatportrait!WhataslapNaturedoesgivetopainting!Yourememberwhenweusedtolookatthedressesandtheanimationofthegalleriesinformertimes?Notapaintingthenwithstoodtheshock.Andyetnowtherearesomewhichdon’tsufferovermuch.Ievennoticedovertherealandscape,thegeneralyellowishtingeofwhichcompletelyeclipsedallthewomenwhoapproachedit.’

Claudewasquiveringwithunutterablesuffering.

‘Pray,let’sgo,’hesaid.‘Takemeaway—Ican’tstanditanylonger.’

Theyhadallthetroubleintheworldtofindafreetableintherefreshmentroom.Peoplewerepressedtogetherinthatbig,shadyretreat,girtroundwithbrownsergedraperyunderthegirdersoftheloftyironflooringoftheupstairsgalleries.Inthebackground,andbutpartiallyvisibleinthedarkness,stoodthreedressersdisplayingdishesofpreservedfruitsymmetricallyrangedonshelves;while,nearerathand,atcountersplacedontherightandleft,twoladies,adarkoneandafairone,watchedthecrowdwithamilitaryair;andfromthedimdepthsofthisseemingcavernroseaseaoflittlemarbletables,atideofchairs,

serried,entangled,surging,swelling,overflowingandspreadingintothegarden,underthebroad,pallidlightwhichfellfromtheglassroof.

AtlastSandozsawsomepeoplerise.Hedartedforwardandconqueredthevacanttablebysheerstrugglingwiththemob.

‘Ah!dashit!wearehereatallevents.Whatwillyouhavetoeat?’

Claudemadeagestureofindifference.Thelunchwasexecrable;therewassometroutsoftenedbyover–boiling,someundercutofbeefdriedupintheoven,someasparagussmellingofmoistlinen,and,inaddition,onehadtofighttogetserved;forthehustledwaiters,losingtheirheads,remainedindistressinthenarrowpassageswhichthechairswereconstantlyblocking.Behindthehangingsontheleft,onecouldheararacketofsaucepansandcrockery;thekitchenbeinginstalledthereonthesand,likeoneofthoseKermessecook–shopssetupbytheroadsideintheopenair.

SandozandClaudehadtoeat,seatedobliquelyandhalfstrangledbetweentwopartiesofpeoplewhoseelbowsalmostendedbygettingintotheirplates;andeachtimethatawaiterpassedhegavetheirchairsashakewithhiships.However,theinconvenience,liketheabominablecookery,madeonegay.Peoplejestedaboutthedishes,differenttablesfraternisedtogether,commonmisfortunebroughtaboutakindofpleasureparty.Strangersendedbysympathising;friendskeptupconversations,althoughtheywereseatedthreerowsdistantfromoneanother,andwereobligedtoturntheirheadsandgesticulateovertheirneighbours’shoulders.Thewomenparticularlybecameanimated,atfirstratheranxiousastothecrush,andthenunglovingtheirhands,catchinguptheirskirts,andlaughingatthefirstthimblefulofneatwinetheydrank.

However,Sandoz,whohadrenouncedfinishinghismeat,raisedhisvoiceamidtheterriblehubbubcausedbythechatterandtheserving:

‘Abitofcheese,eh?Andlet’strytogetsomecoffee.’

Claude,whoseeyeslookeddreamy,didnothear.Hewasgazingintothegarden.Fromhisseathecouldseethecentralclumpofverdure,someloftypalmswhichstoodinreliefagainstthegreyhangingswithwhichthegardenwasdecoratedallround.Acircleofstatueswassetoutthere;andyoucouldseethebackofafaun;theprofileofayounggirlwithfullcheeks;thefaceofabronzeGaul,acolossalbitofromanticismwhichirritatedonebyitsstupidassumptionofpatriotism;thetrunkofawomanhangingbythewrists,someAndromedaofthePlacePigalle;andothers,andothersstillfollowingthebendsofthepathways;rowsofshouldersandhips,heads,breasts,legs,andarms,allminglingandgrowingindistinctinthedistance.Ontheleftstretchedalineofbusts—suchdelightfulones—furnishingamostcomicalanduncommonsuiteofnoses.Therewasthehugepointednoseofapriest,thetip–tiltednoseofasoubrette,thehandsomeclassicalnoseofafifteenth–centuryItalianwoman,themerefancynoseofasailor—infact,everykindofnose,boththemagistrate’sandthemanufacturer’s,andthenoseofthegentlemandecoratedwiththeLegionofHonour—allofthemmotionlessandrangedinendlesssuccession!

However,Claudesawnothingofthem;tohimtheywerebutgreyspotsinthehazy,greenishlight.Hisstuporstilllasted,andhewasonlyconsciousofonething,theluxuriousnessofthewomen’sdresses,ofwhichhehadformedawrongestimateamidthe

pushinginthegalleries,andwhichwereherefreelydisplayed,asifthewearershadbeenpromenadingoverthegravelintheconservatoryofsomechateau.AlltheeleganceofParispassedby,thewomenwhohadcometoshowthemselves,indressesthoughtfullycombinedanddestinedtobedescribedinthemorrow’snewspapers.Peoplestaredagreatdealatanactress,whowalkedaboutwithaqueen–liketread,onthearmofagentlemanwhoassumedthecomplacentairsofaprinceconsort.Thewomenofsocietylookedlikesomanyhussies,andtheyallofthemtookstockofoneanotherwiththatslowglancewhichestimatesthevalueofsilkandthelengthoflace,andwhichferretseverywhere,fromthetipsofbootstothefeathersuponbonnets.Thiswasneutralground,sotosay;someladieswhowereseatedhaddrawntheirchairstogether,afterthefashioninthegardenoftheTuileries,andoccupiedthemselvesexclusivelywithcriticisingthoseoftheirownsexwhopassedby.Twofemalefriendsquickenedtheirpace,laughing.Anotherwoman,allalone,walkedupanddown,mute,withablacklookinhereyes.Someothers,whohadlostoneanother,metagain,andbeganejaculatingabouttheadventure.And,meantime,thedarkmovingmassofmencametoastandstill,thensetoffagaintillitstoppedshortbeforeabitofmarble,oreddiedbacktoabitofbronze.Andamongthemerebourgeois,whowerefewinnumber,thoughallofthemlookedoutoftheirelementthere,movedmenwithcelebratednames—alltheillustrationsofParis.Anameofresoundinggloryre–echoedasafat,ill–cladgentlemanpassedby;thewingednameofapoetfollowedasapalemanwithaflat,commonfaceapproached.Alivingwavewasrisingfromthiscrowdintheeven,colourlesslightwhensuddenlyaflashofsunshine,frombehindthecloudsofafinalshower,settheglasspanesonhighaflame,makingthestainedwindowonthewesternsideresplendent,andrainingdowningoldenparticlesthroughthestillatmosphere;andtheneverythingbecamewarm—thesnowystatuesamidtheshinygreenstuff,thesoftlawnspartedbytheyellowsandofthepathways,therichdresseswiththeirglossysatinandbrightbeads,eventheveryvoices,whosehilariousmurmurseemedtocracklelikeabrightfireofvineshoots.Somegardeners,completingthearrangementsoftheflower–beds,turnedonthetapsofthestand–pipesandpromenadedaboutwiththeirpots,theshowerssquirtingfromwhichcameforthagainintepidsteamfromthedrenchedgrass.Andmeanwhileapluckysparrow,whohaddescendedfromtheirongirders,despitethenumberofpeople,dippedhisbeakinthesandinfrontofthebuffet,eatingsomecrumbswhichayoungwomanthrewhimbywayofamusement.Ofallthetumult,however,Claudeonlyheardtheocean–likedinafar,therumblingofthepeoplerollingonwardsinthegalleries.Andarecollectioncametohim,herememberedthatnoisewhichhadburstforthlikeahurricaneinfrontofhispictureattheSalonoftheRejected.Butnowadayspeoplenolongerlaughedathim;upstairsthegiantroarofPariswasacclaimingFagerolles!

ItsohappenedthatSandoz,whohadturnedround,saidtoClaude:‘Hallo!there’sFagerolles!’

And,indeed,FagerollesandJoryhadjustlaidhandsonatablenearbywithoutnoticingtheirfriends,andthejournalist,continuinginhisgruffvoiceaconversationwhichhadpreviouslybegun,remarked:

‘Yes,Isawhis“DeadChild”!Ah!thepoordevil!whatanending!’

ButFagerollesnudgedJory,andthelatter,havingcaughtsightofhistwooldcomrades,

immediatelyadded:

‘Ah!thatdearoldClaude!Howgoesit,eh?YouknowthatIhaven’tyetseenyourpicture.ButI’mtoldthatit’ssuperb.’

‘Superb!’declaredFagerolles,whothenbegantoexpresshissurprise.‘Soyoulunchedhere.Whatanidea!Everythingissoawfullybad.WetwohavejustcomefromLedoyen’s.Oh!suchacrowdandsuchhustling,suchmirth!Bringyourtablenearerandletuschatabit.’

Theyjoinedthetwotablestogether.Butflatterersandpetitionerswerealreadyafterthetriumphantyoungmaster.Threefriendsroseupandnoisilysalutedhimfromafar.Aladybecamesmilinglycontemplativewhenherhusbandhadwhisperedhisnameinherear.Andthetall,thinfellow,theartistwhosepicturehadbeenbadlyhung,andwhohadpursuedhimsincethemorning,asenragedasever,leftatablewherehewasseatedatthefurtherendofthebuffet,andagainhurriedforwardtocomplain,imperativelydemanding‘theline’atonce.

‘Oh!gotothedeuce!’atlastcriedFagerolles,hispatienceandamiabilityexhausted.Andheadded,whentheotherhadgoneoff,mumblingsomeindistinctthreats:‘It’strue;afellowdoesallhecantobeobliging,butthosechapswoulddriveonemad!Allofthemonthe“line”!leaguesof“line”then!Ah!whatabusinessitistobeacommittee–man!Onewearsoutone’slegs,andoneonlyreapshatredasreward.’

Claude,whowaslookingathimwithhisoppressedair,seemedtowakeupforamoment,andmurmured:

‘Iwrotetoyou;Iwantedtogoandseeyoutothankyou.Bongrandtoldmeaboutallthetroubleyouhad.Sothanksagain.’

ButFagerolleshastilybrokein:

‘Tut,tut!Icertainlyowedthatmuchtoouroldfriendship.It’sIwhoamdelightedtohavegivenyouanypleasure.’

Heshowedtheembarrassmentwhichalwayscameuponhiminpresenceoftheacknowledgedmasterofhisyouth,thatkindofhumilitywhichfilledhimperforcewhenhewaswiththemanwhosemutedisdain,evenatthismoment,sufficedtospoilallhistriumph.

‘Yourpictureisverygood,’slowlyaddedClaude,whowishedtobekind–heartedandgenerous.

ThissimplepraisemadeFagerolles’heartswellwithexaggerated,irresistibleemotion,springingheknewnotwhence;andthisrascal,whobelievedinnothing,whowasusuallysoproficientinhumbug,answeredinashakyvoice:

‘Ah!mydearfellow,ah!it’sverykindofyoutotellmethat!’

Sandozhadatlastobtainedtwocupsofcoffee,andasthewaiterhadforgottentobringanysugar,hehadtocontenthimselfwithsomepieceswhichapartyhadleftonanadjoiningtable.Afewtables,indeed,hadnowbecomevacant,butthegeneralfreedomhadincreased,andonewoman’slaughterrangoutsoloudlythateveryheadturnedround.

Themenweresmoking,andabluishcloudslowlyroseabovethestragglingtablecloths,stainedbywineandlitteredwithdirtyplatesanddishes.WhenFagerolles,onhisaide,succeededinobtainingtwoglassesofchartreuseforhimselfandJory,hebegantotalktoSandoz,whomhetreatedwithacertainamountofdeference,diviningthatthenovelistmightbecomeapower.AndJorythereuponappropriatedClaude,whohadagainbecomemournfulandsilent.

‘Youknow,mydearfellow,’saidthejournalist,‘Ididn’tsendyouanyannouncementofmymarriage.Onaccountofourpositionwemanageditonthequietwithoutinvitinganyguests.Allthesame,Ishouldhavelikedtoletyouknow.Youwillexcuseme,won’tyou?’

Heshowedhimselfexpansive,gaveparticulars,fullofthehappinessoflife,andegotisticallydelightedtofeelfatandvictoriousinfrontofthatpoorvanquishedfellow.Hesucceededwitheverything,hesaid.Hehadgivenupleader–writing,feelingthenecessityofsettlingdownseriously,andhehadrisentotheeditorshipofaprominentartreview,onwhich,soitwasasserted,hemadethirtythousandfrancsayear,withoutmentioningcertainprofitsrealisedbyshadytraffickinginthesaleofartcollections.Themiddle–classrapacitywhichhehadinheritedfromhismother,thehereditarypassionforprofitwhichhadsecretlyimpelledhimtoembarkinpettyspeculationsassoonashehadgainedafewcoppers,nowopenlydisplayeditself,andendedbymakinghimaterriblecustomer,whobledalltheartistsandamateurswhocameunderhisclutches.

ItwasamidstthisgoodluckofhisthatMathilde,nowall–powerful,hadbroughthimtothepointofbeggingher,withtearsinhiseyes,tobecomehiswife,arequestwhichshehadproudlyrefusedduringsixlongmonths.

‘Whenfolksaredestinedtolivetogether,’hecontinued,‘thebestcourseistoseteverythingsquare.Youexperiencedityourself,mydearfellow;youknowsomethingaboutit,eh?AndifItoldyouthatshewouldn’tconsentatfirst—yes,it’safact—forfearofbeingmisjudgedandofdoingmeharm.Oh!shehassuchgrandeur,suchdelicacyofmind!No,nobodycanhaveanideaofthatwoman’squalities.Devoted,takingallpossiblecareofone,economical,andacute,too,andsuchagoodadviser!Ah!itwasaluckychancethatImether!Inolongerdoanythingwithoutconsultingher;Iletherdoasshelikes;shemanageseverything,uponmyword.’

ThetruthwasthatMathildehadfinishedbyreducinghimtothefrightenedobedienceofalittleboy.Theoncedissoluteshe–ghoulhadbecomeadictatorialspouse,eagerforrespect,andconsumedwithambitionandloveofmoney.Sheshowed,too,everyformofsourishvirtue.ItwassaidthattheyhadbeenseentakingtheHolyCommuniontogetheratNotreDamedeLorette.Theykissedoneanotherbeforeotherpeople,andcalledeachotherbyendearingnicknames.Only,ofanevening,hehadtorelatehowhehadspenthistimeduringtheday,andiftheemploymentofasinglehourremainedsuspicious,ifhedidnotbringhomeallthemoneyhehadreceived,downtotheoddcoppers,sheledhimthemostabominablelifeimaginable.

This,ofcourse,Joryleftunmentioned.Bywayofconclusionheexclaimed:‘Andsowewaitedformyfather’sdeath,andthenImarriedher.’

Claude,whosemindhadsofarbeenwandering,andwhohadmerelynoddedwithoutlistening,wasstruckbythatlastsentence.

‘What!youmarriedher—marriedMathilde?’

Thatexclamationsummedupalltheastonishmentthattheaffaircausedhim,alltherecollectionsthatoccurredtohimofMahoudeau’sshop.ThatJory,why,hecouldstillhearhimtalkingaboutMathildeinanabominablemanner;andyethehadmarriedher!Itwasreallystupidforafellowtospeakbadlyofawoman,forheneverknewifhemightnotendbymarryinghersomedayorother!

However,Jorywasperfectlyserene,hismemorywasdead,heneverallowedhimselfanallusiontothepast,nevershowedtheslightestembarrassmentwhenhiscomrades’eyeswereturnedonhim.Besides,Mathildeseemedtobeanew–comer.Heintroducedhertothemasiftheyknewnothingwhateverabouther.

Sandoz,whohadlentaneartotheconversation,greatlyinterestedbythisfinebusiness,calledoutassoonasJoryandClaudebecamesilent:

‘Let’sbeoff,eh?Mylegsaregettingnumbed.’

ButatthatmomentIrmaBecotappeared,andstoppedinfrontofthebuffet.Withherhairfreshlygilded,shehadputonherbestlooks—allthetrickysheenofatawnyhussy,whoseemedtohavejuststeppedoutofsomeoldRenaissanceframe;andsheworeatrainoflightbluebrocadedsilk,withasatinskirtcoveredwithAlenconlace,ofsuchrichnessthatquiteanescortofgentlemenfollowedherinadmiration.OnperceivingClaudeamongtheothers,shehesitatedforamoment,seized,asitwere,withcowardlyshameinfrontofthatill–clad,ugly,derideddevil.Then,becomingvaliant,asitwere,itwashishandthatsheshookthefirstamidallthosewell–dressedmen,whoopenedtheireyesinamazement.Shelaughedwithanaffectionateair,andspoketohiminafriendly,banteringway.

Fagerolles,however,wasalreadypayingforthetwochartreuseshehadordered,andatlasthewentoffwithIrma,whomJoryalsodecidedtofollow.Claudewatchedthemwalkawaytogether,shebetweenthetwomen,movingoninregalfashion,greatlyadmired,andrepeatedlybowedtobypeopleinthecrowd.

‘OnecanseeverywellthatMathildeisn’there,’quietlyremarkedSandoz.‘Ah!myfriend,whatcloutsJorywouldreceiveongettinghome!’

Thenovelistnowaskedforthebill.Allthetableswerebecomingvacant;thereonlyremainedalitterofbonesandcrusts.Acoupleofwaiterswerewipingthemarbleslabswithsponges,whilstathirdrakedupthesoiledsand.Behindthebrownsergehangingsthestaffoftheestablishmentwaslunching—onecouldhearagrindingofjawsandhuskylaughter,arumpusakintothatofacampofgipsiesdevouringthecontentsoftheirsaucepans.

ClaudeandSandozwentroundthegarden,wheretheydiscoveredastatuebyMahoudeau,verybadlyplacedinacornerneartheeasternvestibule.Itwasthebathinggirlatlast,standingerect,butofdiminutiveproportions,beingscarcelyastallasagirltenyearsold,butcharminglydelicate—withslimhipsandatinybosom,displayingalltheexquisitehesitancyofasproutingbud.Thefigureseemedtoexhaleaperfume,thatgracewhichnothingcangive,butwhichflowerswhereitlists,stubborn,invincible,perennialgrace,springingstillandeverfromMahoudeau’sthickfingers,whichweresoignorantoftheirspecialaptitudethattheyhadlongtreatedthisverygracewithderision.

Sandozcouldnothelpsmiling.

‘Andtothinkthatthisfellowhasdoneeverythinghecouldtowarphistalent.Ifhisfigurewerebetterplaced,itwouldmeetwithgreatsuccess.’

‘Yes,greatsuccess,’repeatedClaude.‘Itisverypretty.’

PreciselyatthatmomenttheyperceivedMahoudeau,alreadyinthevestibule,andgoingtowardsthestaircase.Theycalledhim,ranafterhim,andthenallthreeremainedtalkingtogetherforafewminutes.Theground–floorgallerystretchedaway,empty,withitssandedpavement,andthepalelightstreamingthroughitslargeroundwindows.Onemighthavefanciedoneselfunderarailwaybridge.Strongpillarssupportedthemetallicframework,andanicychillnessblewfromabove,moisteningthesandinwhichone’sfeetsank.Inthedistance,behindatorncurtain,onecouldseerowsofstatues,therejectedsculpturalexhibits,thecastswhichpoorsculptorsdidnotevenremove,gatheredtogetherinalividkindofMorgue,inastateoflamentableabandonment.Butwhatsurprisedone,onraisingone’shead,wasthecontinuousdin,themightytrampofthepublicovertheflooringoftheuppergalleries.Onewasdeafenedbyit;itrolledonwithoutapause,asifinterminabletrains,goingatfullspeed,wereeverandevershakingtheirongirders.

WhenMahoudeauhadbeencomplimented,hetoldClaudethathehadsearchedforhispictureinvain.Inthedepthsofwhatholecouldtheyhaveputit?Then,inafitofaffectionateremembranceforthepast,heaskedanxiouslyafterGagniereandDubuche.WhereweretheSalonsofyorewhichtheyhadallreachedinaband,themadexcursionsthroughthegalleriesasinanenemy’scountry,theviolentdisdaintheyhadfeltongoingaway,thediscussionswhichhadmadetheirtonguesswellandemptiedtheirbrains?NobodynowsawDubuche.TwoorthreetimesamonthGagnierecamefromMelun,inastateofbewilderment,toattendsomeconcert;andhenowtooksuchlittleinterestinpaintingthathehadnotevenlookedinattheSalon,althoughheexhibitedhisusuallandscape,thesameviewofthebanksoftheSeinewhichhehadbeensendingforthelastfifteenyears—apictureofaprettygreyishtint,soconscientiousandquietthatthepublichadneverremarkedit.

‘Iwasgoingupstairs,’resumedMahoudeau.‘Willyoucomewithme?’

Claude,palewithsuffering,raisedhiseyeseverysecond.Ah!thatterriblerumbling,thatdevouringgallopofthemonsteroverhead,theshockofwhichhefeltinhisverylimbs!

Heheldouthishandwithoutspeaking.

‘What!areyougoingtoleaveus?’exclaimedSandoz.Takejustanotherturnwithus,andwe’llgoawaytogether.’

Then,onseeingClaudesoweary,afeelingofpitymadehisheartcontract.Hedivinedthatthepoorfellow’scouragewasexhausted,thathewasdesirousofsolitude,seizedwithadesiretoflyoffaloneandhidehiswound.

‘Then,good–bye,oldman:I’llcallandseeyouto–morrow.’

Staggering,andasifpursuedbythetempestupstairs,Claudedisappearedbehindtheclumpsofshrubberyinthegarden.ButtwohourslaterSandoz,whoafterlosingMahoudeauhadjustfoundhimagainwithJoryandFagerolles,perceivedtheunhappy

painteragainstandinginfrontofhispicture,atthesamespotwherehehadmethimthefirsttime.Atthemomentofgoingoffthewretchedfellowhadcomeupthereagain,harassedandattracteddespitehimself.

Therewasnowtheusualfiveo’clockcrush.Thecrowd,wearyofwindingroundthegalleries,becamedistracted,andpushedandshovedwithouteverfindingitswayout.Sincethecoolnessofthemorning,theheatofallthehumanbodies,theodourofallthebreathexhaledtherehadmadetheatmosphereheavy,andthedustofthefloors,flyingabout,roseupinafinemist.Peoplestilltookeachothertoseecertainpictures,thesubjectsofwhichalonestruckandattractedthecrowd.Somewentoff,cameback,andwalkedaboutunceasingly.Thewomenwereparticularlyobstinateinnotretiring;theyseemeddeterminedtoremaintheretilltheattendantsshouldpushthemoutwhensixo’clockbegantostrike.Somefatladieshadfoundered.Others,whohadfailedtofindeventhetiniestplacetositdown,leanedheavilyontheirparasols,sinking,butstillobstinate.Everyeyewasturnedanxiouslyandsupplicatinglytowardsthesetteesladenwithpeople.Andallthatthosethousandsofsight–seerswerenowconsciousof,wasthatlastfatigueoftheirs,whichmadetheirlegstotter,drewtheirfeaturestogether,andtorturedthemwithheadache—thatheadachepeculiartofine–artshows,whichiscausedbytheconstantstrainingofone’sneckandtheblindingdanceofcolours.

Aloneonthelittlesetteewhereatnoonalreadytheyhadbeentalkingabouttheirprivateaffairs,thetwodecoratedgentlemenwerestillchattingquietly,withtheirmindsahundredleaguesawayfromtheplace.Perhapstheyhadreturnedthither,perhapstheyhadnotevenstirredfromthespot.

‘Andso,’saidthefatone,‘youwentin,pretendingnottounderstand?’

‘Quiteso,’repliedthethinone.‘Ilookedatthemandtookoffmyhat.Itwasclear,eh?’

‘Astonishing!Youreallyastonishme,mydearfriend.’

Claude,however,onlyheardthelowbeatingofhisheart,andonlybeheldthe‘DeadChild’upthereintheair,neartheceiling.Hedidnottakehiseyesoffit,apreytoafascinationwhichheldhimthere,quiteindependentofhiswill.Thecrowdturnedroundhim,people’sfeettrodonhisown,hewaspushedandcarriedaway;and,likesomeinertobject,heabandonedhimself,wavedabout,andultimatelyfoundhimselfagainonthesamespotasbeforewithouthavingonceloweredhishead,quiteignorantofwhatwasoccurringbelow,allhislifebeingconcentratedupyonderbesidehiswork,hislittleJacques,swollenindeath.Twobigtearswhichstoodmotionlessbetweenhiseyelidspreventedhimfromseeingclearly.Anditseemedtohimasifhewouldneverhavetimetoseeenough.

ThenSandoz,inhisdeepcompassion,pretendedhedidnotperceivehisoldfriend;itwasasifhewishedtoleavehimthere,besidethetombofhiswreckedlife.Theircomradesoncemorewentpastinaband.FagerollesandJorydartedonahead,and,MahoudeauhavingaskedSandozwhereClaude’spicturewashung,thenovelisttoldalie,drewhimasideandtookhimoff.Allofthemwentaway.

IntheeveningChristineonlymanagedtodrawcurtwordsfromClaude;everythingwasgoingonallright,saidhe;thepublicshowednoill–humour;thepicturehadagoodeffect,thoughitwashungperhapsratherhighup.However,despitethissemblanceofcold

tranquillity,heseemedsostrangethatshebecamefrightened.

Afterdinner,asshereturnedfromcarryingthedirtyplatesintothekitchen,shenolongerfoundhimnearthetable.Hehadopenedawindowwhichoverlookedsomewasteground,andhestoodthere,leaningouttosuchadegreethatshecouldscarcelyseehim.Atthisshesprangforward,terrified,andpulledhimviolentlybyhisjacket.

‘Claude!Claude!whatareyoudoing?’

Heturnedround,withhisfaceaswhiteasasheetandhiseyeshaggard.

‘I’mlooking,’hesaid.

Butsheclosedthewindowwithtremblinghands,andafterthatsignificantincidentsuchanguishclungtoherthatshenolongersleptatnight–time.

[11]Thispalace,formanyyearsthehomeofthe‘Salon,’wasbuiltforthefirstParisInternationalExhibition,thatof1855,anddemolishedinconnectionwiththatof1900.—ED.[12]Apaintingbyoneofthoseartistswho,fromthefactthattheyhadobtainedmedalsatpreviousSalons,hadtherighttogoonexhibitingatlongastheylived,thecommitteebeingdebarredfromrejectingtheirworkhoweverbaditmightbe.—ED.

XICLAUDEsettoworkagainontheverynextday,andmonthselapsed,indeedthewholesummerwentby,inheavyquietude.Hehadfoundajob,somelittlepaintingsofflowersforEngland,theproceedsofwhichsufficedfortheirdailybread.Allhisavailabletimewasagaindevotedtohislargecanvas,andhenolongerwentintothesamefitsofangeroverit,butseemedtoresignhimselftothateternaltask,evincingobstinate,hopelessindustry.However,hiseyesretainedtheircrazyexpression—onecouldseethedeathoflight,asitwere,inthem,whentheygazeduponthefailureofhisexistence.

AboutthisperiodSandozalsoexperiencedgreatgrief.Hismotherdied,hiswholelifewasupset—thatlifeofthreetogether,sohomelyinitscharacter,andsharedmerelybyafewfriends.HebegantohatethepavilionoftheRueNollet,and,moreover,successsuddenlydeclareditselfwithrespecttohisbooks,whichhithertohadsoldbutmoderatelywell.So,promptedbytheadventofcomparativewealth,herentedintheRuedeLondresaspaciousflat,thearrangementsofwhichoccupiedhimandhiswifeforseveralmonths.Sandoz’sgriefhaddrawnhimclosertoClaudeagain,bothbeingdisgustedwitheverything.AftertheterribleblowoftheSalon,thenovelisthadfeltveryanxiousabouthisoldchum,diviningthatsomethinghadirreparablysnappedwithinhim,thattherewassomewoundbywhichlifeebbedawayunseen.Then,however,findingClaudesocoldandquiet,heendedbygrowingsomewhatreassured.

SandozoftenwalkeduptotheRueTourlaque,andwheneverhefoundonlyChristineathome,hequestionedher,realisingthatshealsolivedinapprehensionofacalamityofwhichsheneverspoke.Herfaceborealookofworry,andnowandagainshestartednervously,likeamotherwhowatchesoverherchildandtremblesattheslightestsound,withthefearthatdeathmaybeenteringthechamber.

OneJulymorningSandozaskedher:‘Well,areyoupleased?Claude’squiet,heworksadeal.’

Shegavethelargepictureherusualglance,asideglancefullofterrorandhatred.

‘Yes,yes,heworks,’shesaid.‘Hewantstofinisheverythingelsebeforetakingupthewomanagain.’Andwithoutconfessingthefearthatharassedher,sheaddedinalowertone:‘Buthiseyes—haveyounoticedhiseyes?Theyalwayshavethesamewildexpression.Iknowverywellthathelies,despitehispretenceoftakingthingssoeasily.Pray,comeandseehim,andtakehimoutwithyou,soastochangethecurrentofhisthoughts.Heonlyhasyouleft;helpme,dohelpme!’

AfterthatSandozdiligentlydevisedmotivesforvariouswalks,arrivingatClaude’searlyinthemorning,andcarryinghimawayfromhisworkperforce.Itwasalmostalwaysnecessarytodraghimfromhissteps,onwhichhehabituallysat,evenwhenhewasnotpainting.Afeelingofwearinessstoppedhim,akindoftorporbenumbedhimforlongminutes,duringwhichhedidnotgiveasinglestrokewiththebrush.Inthosemomentsofmutecontemplation,hisgazerevertedwithpiousfervourtothewoman’sfigurewhichhenolongertouched:itwaslikeahesitatingdesirecombinedwithsacredawe,apassion

whichherefusedtosatisfy,ashefeltcertainthatitwouldcosthimhislife.Whenhesettoworkagainattheotherfiguresandthebackgroundofthepicture,hewellknewthatthewoman’sfigurewasstillthere,andhisglancewaveredwheneverheespiedit;hefeltthathewouldonlyremainmasterofhimselfaslongashedidnottouchitagain.

Oneevening,Christine,whonowvisitedatSandoz’sandnevermissedasingleThursdaythere,inthehopeofseeingherbigsickchildofanartistbrightenupinthesocietyofhisfriends,tookthenovelistasideandbeggedhimtodropinattheirplaceonthemorrow.AndonthenextdaySandoz,who,asithappened,wantedtotakesomenotesforanovel,ontheothersideofMontmartre,wentinsearchofClaude,carriedhimoffandkepthimidlingaboutuntilnight–time.

OnthisoccasiontheywentasfarasthegateofClignancourt,whereaperpetualfairwasheld,withmerry–go–rounds,shooting–galleries,andtaverns,andonreachingthespottheywerestupefiedtofindthemselvesfacetofacewithChaine,whowasenthronedinalargeandstylishbooth.Itwasakindofchapel,highlyornamented.Therewerefourcircularrevolvingstandssetinarowandloadedwitharticlesinchinaandglass,allsortsofornamentsandnick–nacks,whosegildingandpolishshoneamidanharmonica–liketinklingwheneverthehandofagamestersetthestandinmotion.Itthenspunround,gratingagainstafeather,which,ontherotatorymovementceasing,indicatedwhatarticle,ifany,hadbeenwon.Thebigprizewasaliverabbit,adornedwithpinkfavours,whichwaltzedandrevolvedunceasingly,intoxicatedwithfright.Andallthisdisplaywassetinredhangings,scallopedatthetop;andbetweenthecurtainsonesawthreepictureshangingattherearofthebooth,asinthesanctuaryofsometabernacle.TheywereChaine’sthreemasterpieces,whichnowfollowedhimfromfairtofair,fromoneendofParistotheother.The‘WomantakeninAdultery’inthecentre,thecopyoftheMantegnaontheleft,andMahoudeau’sstoveontheright.Ofanevening,whenthepetroleumlampsflamedandtherevolvingstandsglowedandradiatedlikeplanets,nothingseemedfinerthanthosepictureshangingamidtheblood–tingedpurpleofthehangings,andagapingcrowdoftenflockedtoviewthem.

ThesightwassuchthatitwrunganexclamationfromClaude:‘Ah,goodheavens!Butthosepaintingslookverywell—theyweresurelyintendedforthis.’

TheMantegna,sonaivelyharshintreatment,lookedlikesomefadedcolouredprintnailedthereforthedelectationofsimple–mindedfolk;whilsttheminutelypaintedstove,allawry,hangingbesidethegingerbreadChristabsolvingtheadulterouswoman,assumedanunexpectedlygayaspect.

However,Chaine,whohadjustperceivedthetwofriends,heldouthishandtothem,asifhehadleftthemmerelythedaybefore.Hewascalm,neitherproudnorashamedofhisbooth,andhehadnotaged,havingstillaleatheryaspect;though,ontheotherhand,hisnosehadcompletelyvanishedbetweenhischeeks,whilsthismouth,clammywithprolongedsilence,wasburiedinhismoustacheandbeard.

‘Hallo!sowemeetagain!’saidSandoz,gaily.‘Doyouknow,yourpaintingshavealotofeffect?’

‘Theoldhumbug!’addedClaude.‘Why,hehashislittleSalonalltohimself.That’sverycuteindeed.’

Chaine’sfacebecameradiant,andhedroppedtheremark:‘Ofcourse!’

Then,ashisartisticpridewasroused,he,fromwhompeoplebarelywrunganythingbutgrowls,gaveutterancetoawholesentence:

‘Ah!it’squitecertainthatifIhadhadanymoney,likeyoufellows,Ishouldhavemademyway,justasyouhavedone,inspiteofeverything.’

Thatwashisconviction.Hehadneverdoubtedofhistalent,hehadsimplyforsakentheprofessionbecauseitdidnotfeedhim.WhenhevisitedtheLouvre,atsightofthemasterpieceshangingtherehefeltconvincedthattimealonewasnecessarytoturnoutsimilarwork.

‘Ah,me!’saidClaude,whohadbecomegloomyagain.‘Don’tregretwhatyou’vedone;youalonehavesucceeded.Businessisbrisk,eh?’

ButChainemutteredbitterwords.No,no,therewasnothingdoing,noteveninhisline.Peoplewouldn’tplayforprizes;allthemoneyfounditswaytothewine–shops.Inspiteofbuyingpaltryoddsandends,andstrikingthetablewiththepalmofone’shand,sothatthefeathermightnotindicateoneofthebigprizes,afellowbarelyhadwatertodrinknowadays.Then,assomepeoplehaddrawnnear,hestoppedshortinhisexplanationtocallout:‘Walkup,walkup,ateveryturnyouwin!’inagruffvoicewhichthetwoothershadneverknownhimtopossess,andwhichfairlystupefiedthem.

Aworkmanwhowascarryingasicklylittlegirlwithlargecovetouseyes,letherplaytwoturns.Therevolvingstandsgratedandthenick–nacksdancedroundindazzlingfashion,whiletheliverabbit,withhisearslowered,revolvedandrevolvedsorapidlythattheoutlineofhisbodyvanishedandhebecamenothingbutawhitishcircle.Therewasamomentofgreatemotion,forthelittlegirlhadnarrowlymissedwinninghim.

Then,aftershakinghandswithChaine,whowasstilltremblingwiththefrightthishadgivenhim,thetwofriendswalkedaway.

‘He’shappy,’saidClaude,aftertheyhadgonesomefiftypacesinsilence.

‘He!’criedSandoz;‘why,hebelieveshehasmissedbecomingamemberoftheInstitute,andit’skillinghim.’

Shortlyafterthismeeting,andtowardsthemiddleofAugust,Sandozdevisedarealexcursionwhichwouldtakeupawholeday.HehadmetDubuche—Dubuche,carewornandmournful,whohadshownhimselfplaintiveandaffectionate,rakingupthepastandinvitinghistwooldchumstolunchatLaRichaudiere,whereheshouldbealonewithhistwochildrenforanotherfortnight.Whyshouldn’ttheygoandsurprisehimthere,sinceheseemedsodesirousofrenewingtheoldintimacy?ButinvaindidSandozrepeatthathehadpromisedDubucheonoathtobringClaudewithhim;thepainterobstinatelyrefusedtogo,asifhewerefrightenedattheideaofagainbeholdingBennecourt,theSeine,theislands,allthestretchofcountrywherehishappyyearslaydeadandburied.ItwasnecessaryforChristinetointerfere,andhefinishedbygivingway,althoughfullofrepugnancetothetrip.Itpreciselyhappenedthatonthedaypriortotheappointmenthehadworkedathispaintinguntilverylate,beingtakenwiththeoldfeveragain.Andsothenextmorning—itwasSunday—beingdevouredwithalongingtopaint,hewentoffmostreluctantly,tearinghimselfawayfromhispicturewithapang.Whatwastheuseof

returningtoBennecourt?Allthatwasdead,itnolongerexisted.Parisaloneremained,andeveninParistherewasbutoneview,thepointoftheCite,thatvisionwhichhauntedhimalwaysandeverywhere,thatonecornerwhereheeverlefthisheart.

Sandoz,findinghimnervousintherailwaycarriage,andseeingthathiseyesremainedfixedonthewindowasifhehadbeenleavingthecity—whichhadgraduallygrownsmallerandseemedshroudedinmist—foryears,didallhecouldtodiverthismind,tellinghim,forinstance,whatheknewaboutDubuche’srealposition.Attheoutset,oldMargaillan,glorifyinginhisbemedalledson–in–law,hadtrottedhimaboutandintroducedhimeverywhereashispartnerandsuccessor.Therewasafellowwhowouldconductbusinessbriskly,whowouldbuildhousesmorecheaplyandinfinerstylethanever,forhadn’thegrownpaleoverbooks?ButDubuche’sfirstideaproveddisastrous;onsomelandbelongingtohisfather–in–lawinBurgundyheestablishedabrickyardinsounfavourableasituation,andaftersodefectiveaplan,thattheventureresultedinthesheerlossoftwohundredthousandfrancs.Thenheturnedhisattentiontoerectinghouses,insistinguponbringingpersonalideasintoexecution,acertaingeneralschemeofhiswhichwouldrevolutionisethebuildingart.Theseideasweretheoldtheoriesheheldfromtherevolutionarychumsofhisyouth,everythingthathehadpromisedhewouldrealisewhenhewasfree;buthehadnotproperlyreducedthetheoriestomethod,andheappliedthemunseasonably,withtheawkwardnessofapupillackingthesacredfire;heexperimentedwithterra–cottaandpotteryornamentation,largebaywindows,andespeciallywiththeemploymentofiron—irongirders,ironstaircases,andironroofings;andastheemploymentofthesematerialsincreasedtheoutlay,heagainendedwithacatastrophe,whichwasallthegreaterashewasapitifulmanager,andhadlosthisheadsincehehadbecomerich,renderedthemoreobtuse,itseemed,bymoney,quitespoiltandatsea,unableeventoreverttohisoldhabitsofindustry.ThistimeMargaillangrewangry;heforthirtyyearshadbeenbuyingground,buildingandsellingagain,estimatingataglancethecostandreturnofhouseproperty;somanyyardsofbuildingatsomuchthefoothavingtoyieldsomanysuitesofroomsatsomuchrent.Hewouldn’thaveanythingmoretodowithafellowwhoblunderedaboutlime,bricks,millstones,andinfacteverything,whoemployedoakwhendealwouldhavesuited,andwhocouldnotbringhimselftocutupastorey—likeaconsecratedwafer—intoasmanylittlesquaresaswasnecessary.No,no,noneofthat!Herebelledagainstart,afterhavingbeenambitioustointroducealittleofitintohisroutine,inordertosatisfyalong–standingworryabouthisownignorance.Andafterthatmattershadgonefrombadtoworse,terriblequarrelshadarisenbetweentheson–in–lawandthefather–in–law,theformerdisdainful,intrenchinghimselfbehindhisscience,andthelattershoutingthatthecommonestlabourerknewmorethananarchitectdid.Themillionswereindanger,andonefinedayMargaillanturnedDubucheoutofhisoffices,forbiddinghimevertosetfootinthemagain,sincehedidnotevenknowhowtodirectabuilding–yardwhereonlyfourmenworked.Itwasadisaster,alamentablefailure,theSchoolofArtscollapsing,deridedbyamason!

AtthispointofSandoz’sstory,Claude,whohadbeguntolistentohisfriend,inquired:

‘ThenwhatisDubuchedoingnow?’

‘Idon’tknow—nothingprobably,’answeredSandoz.‘Hetoldmethathewasanxiousabouthischildren’shealth,andwastakingcareofthem.’

Thatpalewoman,MadameMargaillan,asslenderasthebladeofaknife,haddiedoftubercularconsumption,whichwasplainlythehereditarydisease,thesourceofthefamily’sdegeneracy,forherdaughter,Regine,hadbeencoughingeversincehermarriage.ShewasnowdrinkingthewatersatMont–Dore,whithershehadnotdaredtotakeherchildren,astheyhadbeenverypoorlytheyearbefore,afteraseasonspentinthatpart,wheretheairwastookeenforthem.Thisexplainedthescatteringofthefamily:themotheroveryonderwithhermaid;thegrandfatherinParis,wherehehadresumedhisgreatbuildingenterprises,battlingamidhisfourhundredworkmen,andcrushingtheidleandtheincapablebeneathhiscontempt;andthefatherinexileatLaRichaudiere,settowatchoverhissonanddaughter,shutupthere,aftertheveryfirststruggle,asifithadbrokenhimdownforlife.InamomentofeffusionDubuchehadevenletSandozunderstandthatashiswifewassoextremelydelicatehenowlivedwithhermerelyonfriendlyterms.

‘Anicemarriage,’saidSandoz,simply,bywayofconclusion.

Itwasteno’clockwhenthetwofriendsrangattheirongateofLaRichaudiere.Theestate,withwhichtheywerenotacquainted,amazedthem.Therewasasuperbpark,agardenlaidoutintheFrenchstyle,withbalustradesandstepsspreadingawayinregalfashion;threehugeconservatoriesandacolossalcascade—quiteapieceoffolly,withitsrocksbroughtfromafar,andthequantityofcementandthenumberofconduitsthathadbeenemployedinarrangingit.Indeed,theownerhadsunkafortuneinit,outofsheervanity.Butwhatstruckthefriendsstillmorewasthemelancholy,desertedaspectofthedomain;thegraveloftheavenuescarefullyraked,withneveratraceoffootsteps;thedistantexpansesquitedeserted,savethatnowandthenasolitarygardenerpassedby;andthehouselookinglifeless,withallitswindowsclosed,exceptingtwo,whichwerebarelysetajar.

However,avaletwhohaddecidedtoshowhimselfbegantoquestionthem,andwhenhelearntthattheywishedtosee‘monsieur,’hebecameinsolent,andrepliedthat‘monsieur’wasbehindthehouseinthegymnasium,andthenwentindoorsagain.

SandozandClaudefollowedapathwhichledthemtowardsalawn,andwhattheysawtheremadethempause.Dubuche,whostoodinfrontofatrapeze,wasraisinghisarmstosupporthisson,Gaston,apoorsicklyboywho,attenyearsofage,stillhadtheslight,softlimbsofearlychildhood;whilethegirl,Alice,satinaperambulatorawaitingherturn.Shewassoimperfectlydevelopedthat,althoughshewassixyearsold,shecouldnotyetwalk.Thefather,absorbedinhistask,continuedexercisingtheslimlimbsofhislittleboy,swinginghimbackwardsandforwards,andvainlytryingtomakehimraisehimselfupbyhiswrists.Then,asthisslighteffortsufficedtobringonperspiration,heremovedthelittlefellowfromthetrapezeandrolledhiminarug.Andallthiswasdoneamidcompletesilence,aloneunderthefarexpanseofsky,hisfacewearingalookofdistressfulpityashekneltthereinthatsplendidpark.However,asheroseupheperceivedthetwofriends.

‘What!it’syou?OnaSunday,andwithoutwarningme!’

Hehadmadeagestureofannoyance,andatonceexplainedthatthemaid,theonlywomantowhomhecouldtrustthechildren,wenttoParisonSundays,andthatitwasconsequentlyimpossibleforhimtoleaveGastonandAliceforaminute.

‘I’llwagerthatyoucametolunch?’headded.

AsClaudegaveSandozanimploringglance,thenovelistmadehastetoanswer:

‘No,no.Asithappens,weonlyhavetimeenoughtoshakehandswithyou.Claudehadtocomedownhereonabusinessmatter.HelivedatBennecourt,asyouknow.AndasIaccompaniedhim,wetookitintoourheadstowalkasfarashere.Buttherearepeoplewaitingforus,sodon’tdisturbyourselfintheleast.’

Thereupon,Dubuche,whofeltrelieved,madeashowofdetainingthem.Theycertainlyhadanhourtospare,dashitall!Andtheyallthreebegantotalk.ClaudelookedatDubuche,astonishedtofindhimsoaged;hisflabbyfacehadbecomewrinkled—itwasofayellowishhue,andstreakedwithred,asifbilehadsplashedhisskin;whilsthishairandhismoustacheswerealreadygrowinggrey.Inaddition,hisfigureappearedtohavebecomemorecompact;abitterwearinessmadeeachofhisgesturesseemaneffort.Weredefeatsinmoneymattersashardtobear,then,asdefeatsinart?Everythingaboutthisvanquishedman—hisvoice,hisglance—proclaimedtheshamefuldependencyinwhichhehadtolive:thebankruptcyofhisfuturewhichwascastinhisteeth,withtheaccusationofhavingallowedatalenthedidnotpossesstobesetdownasanassetinthemarriagecontract.Thentherewasthefamilymoneywhichhenowadaysstole,themoneyspentonwhatheate,theclotheshewore,andthepocket–moneyheneeded—infact,theperpetualalmswhichwerebestoweduponhim,justastheymighthavebeenbestoweduponsomevulgarswindler,whomoneunluckilycouldnotgetridof.

‘Waitabit,’resumedDubuche;‘Ihavetostopherefiveminuteslongerwithoneofmypoorduckies,andafterwardswe’llgoindoors.’

Gently,andwithinfinitemotherlyprecautions,heremovedlittleAlicefromtheperambulatorandliftedhertothetrapeze.Then,stammeringcoaxingwordsandsmiling,heencouragedher,andleftherhangingforacoupleofminutes,soastodevelophermuscles;butheremainedwithopenarms,watchingeachmovementwiththefearofseeinghersmashedtopieces,shouldherweaklittlewax–likehandsrelaxtheirhold.Shedidnotsayanything,butobeyedhiminspiteoftheterrorthatthisexercisecausedher;andshewassopitifullylightinweightthatshedidnotevenfullystretchtheropes,beinglikeoneofthosepoorscraggylittlebirdswhichfallfromayoungtreewithoutasmuchasbendingit.

Atthismoment,Dubuche,havinggivenGastonaglance,becamedistractedonremarkingthattherughadslippedandthatthechild’slegswereuncovered.

‘Goodheavens!goodheavens!Why,he’llcatchcoldonthisgrass!AndI,whocan’tmove!Gaston,mylittledear!It’sthesamethingeveryday;youwaittillI’moccupiedwithyoursister.Sandoz,praycoverhimover!Ah,thanks!Pulltherugupmore;don’tbeafraid!’

Sothiswastheoutcomeofhissplendidmarriage—thosetwopoor,weaklittlebeings,whomtheleastbreathfromtheskythreatenedtokilllikeflies.Ofthefortunehehadmarried,allthatremainedtohimwastheconstantgriefofbeholdingthosewoefulchildrenstrickenbythefinaldegeneracyofscrofulaandphthisis.However,thisbig,egotisticalfellowshowedhimselfanadmirablefather.Theonlyenergythatremainedtohimconsistedinadeterminationtomakehischildrenlive,andhestruggledonhourafter

hour,savingthemeverymorning,anddreadingtolosethemeverynight.Theyaloneexistednowamidhisfinishedexistence,amidthebitternessofhisfather–in–law’sinsultingreproaches,thecoldnessofhissorry,ailingwife.Andhekepttohistaskindesperation;hefinishedbringingthosechildrenintotheworld,asitwere,bydintofunremittingtenderness.

‘There,mydarling,that’senough,isn’tit?’hesaid.‘You’llsoonseehowbigandprettyyou’llbecome.’

HethenplacedAliceintheperambulatoragain,tookGaston,whowasstillwrappedup,ononeofhisarms;andwhenhisfriendswishedtohelphim,hedeclinedtheiroffer,pushingthelittlegirl’svehiclealongwithhisrighthand,whichhadremainedfree.

‘Thanks,’hesaid,‘I’maccustomedtoit.Ah!thepoordarlingsarenotheavy;andbesides,withservantsonecanneverbesureofanything.’

Onenteringthehouse,SandozandClaudeagainsawthevaletwhohadbeensoinsolent;andtheynoticedthatDubuchetrembledbeforehim.Thekitchenandthehallsharedthecontemptofthefather–in–law,whopaidforeverything,andtreated‘madame’s’husbandlikeabeggarwhosepresencewasmerelytoleratedoutofcharity.Eachtimethatashirtwasgotreadyforhim,eachtimethatheaskedforsomemorebread,theservants’impolitegesturesmadehimfeelthathewasreceivingalms.

‘Well,good–bye,wemustleaveyou,’saidSandoz,whosufferedatthesightofitall.

‘No,no,waitabit.Thechildrenaregoingtobreakfast,andafterwardsI’llaccompanyyouwiththem.Theymustgofortheirouting.’

Eachdaywasregulatedhourbyhour.Ofamorningcamethebathsandthegymnastics;thenthebreakfast,whichwasquiteanaffair,asthechildrenneededspecialfood,whichwasdulydiscussedandweighed.Andmatterswerecarriedtosuchapointthateventheirwineandwaterwasslightlywarmed,forfearthattoochillyadropmightgivethemacold.Onthisoccasiontheyeachpartookoftheyolkofaneggdilutedinsomebroth,andamuttoncutlet,whichthefathercutupintotinymorsels.Then,priortothesiesta,camethepromenade.

SandozandClaudefoundthemselvesoncemoreout–of–doors,walkingdownthebroadavenueswithDubuche,whoagainpropelledAlice’sperambulator,whilstGastonwalkedbesidehim.Theytalkedabouttheestateastheywenttowardsthegate.Themasterglancedovertheparkwithtimid,nervouseyes,asifhedidnotfeelathome.Besideshedidnotknowanything;hedidnotoccupyhimselfaboutanything.Heappearedeventohaveforgottentheprofessionwhichhewassaidtobeignorantof,andseemedtohavegoneastray,tobeboweddownbysheerinaction.

‘Andyourparents,howarethey?’askedSandoz.

AsparkwasoncemorekindledinDubuche’sdimeyes.

‘Oh!myparentsarehappy,’hesaid;‘Iboughtthemalittlehouse,wheretheyliveontheannuitywhichIhadspecifiedinmymarriagecontract.Well,yousee,mammahadadvancedenoughmoneyformyeducation,andIhadtoreturnittoher,asIhadpromised,eh?Yes,Icanatleastsaythatmyparentshavenothingtoreproachmewith.’

Havingreachedthegate,theytarriedthereforafewminutes.Atlast,stilllookingcrushed,Dubucheshookhandswithhisoldcomrades;andretainingClaude’shandinhis,heconcluded,asifmakingasimplestatementoffactquitedevoidofanger:

‘Good–bye;trytogetoutofworry!Asforme,I’vespoiltmylife.’

Andtheywatchedhimwalkbacktowardsthehouse,pushingtheperambulator,andsupportingGaston,whowasalreadystumblingwithfatigue—he,Dubuche,himselfhavinghisbackbentandtheheavytreadofanoldman.

Oneo’clockwasstriking,andtheybothhurrieddowntowardsBennecourt,saddenedandravenous.Butmournfulnessawaitedthemthereaswell;amurderousblasthadsweptovertheplace,bothFaucheurs,husbandandwife,andoldPorrette,werealldead;andtheinn,havingfallenintothehandsofthatgooseMelie,wasbecomingrepugnantwithitsfilthandcoarseness.Anabominablerepastwasservedthem,anomelettewithhairsinit,andcutletssmellingofgrease,inthecentreofthecommonroom,towhichanopenwindowadmittedthepestilentialodourofadungheap,whiletheplacewassofulloffliesthattheypositivelyblackenedthetables.Theheatoftheburningafternooncameinwiththestench,andClaudeandSandozdidnotevenfeelthecouragetoorderanycoffee;theyfled.

‘AndyouwhousedtoextololdMotherFaucheur’somelettes!’saidSandoz.‘Theplaceisdonefor.Wearegoingforaturn,eh?’

Claudewasinclinedtorefuse.Eversincethemorninghehadhadbutoneidea—thatofwalkingonasfastaspossible,asifeachstepwouldshortenthedisagreeabletaskandbringhimbacktoParis.Hisheart,hishead,hiswholebeinghadremainedthere.Helookedneithertorightnortoleft,heglidedalongwithoutdistinguishingaughtofthefieldsortrees,havingbutonefixedideainhisbrain,apreytosuchhallucinationsthatatcertainmomentshefanciedthepointoftheCiteroseupandcalledtohimfromamidthevastexpanseofstubble.However,Sandoz’sproposalarousedmemoriesinhismind;and,softeningsomewhat,hereplied:

‘Yes,that’sit,we’llhavealook.’

Butastheyadvancedalongtheriverbank,hebecameindignantandgrieved.Hecouldscarcelyrecognisetheplace.AbridgehadbeenbuilttoconnectBennecourtwithBonnieres:abridge,goodheavens!intheplaceoftheoldferry–boat,gratingagainstitschain—theoldblackboatwhich,cuttingathwartthecurrent,hadbeensofullofinteresttotheartisticeye.Moreover,adamestablisheddown–streamatPort–Villezhadraisedtheleveloftheriver,mostoftheislandsofyorewerenowsubmerged,andthelittlearmletsofthestreamhadbecomebroader.Therewerenomoreprettynooks,nomoreripplingalleysamidwhichonecouldloseoneself;itwasadisasterthatinclinedonetostranglealltheriverengineers!

‘Why,thatclumpofpollardsstillemergingfromthewaterontheleft,’criedClaude,‘wastheBarreuxIsland,whereweusedtochattogether,lyingonthegrass!Youremember,don’tyou?Ah!thescoundrels!’

Sandoz,whocouldneverseeatreefelledwithoutshakinghisfistatthewood–cutter,turnedpalewithanger,andfeltexasperatedthattheauthoritieshadthusdaredtomutilatenature.

Then,asClaudeapproachedhisoldhome,hebecamesilent,andhisteethclenched.Thehousehadbeensoldtosomemiddle–classfolk,andnowtherewasanirongate,againstwhichhepressedhisface.Therose–busheswerealldead,theapricottreesweredeadalso;thegarden,whichlookedverytrim,withitslittlepathwaysanditssquare–cutbedsofflowersandvegetables,borderedwithbox,wasreflectedinalargeballofplatedglasssetuponastandintheverycentreofit;andthehouse,newlywhitewashedandpaintedatthecornersandroundthedoorsandwindows,inamannertoimitatefreestone,suggestedsomeclownishparvenuawkwardlyarrayedinhisSundaytoggery.Thesightfairlyenragedthepainter.No,no,nothingofhimself,nothingofChristine,nothingofthegreatloveoftheiryouthremainedthere!Hewishedtolookstillfurther;heturnedroundbehindthehouse,andsoughtforthewoodofoaktreeswheretheyhadleftthelivingquiveroftheirembraces;butthewoodwasdead,deadlikealltherest,felled,sold,andburnt!Thenhemadeagestureofanathema,inwhichhecastallhisgrieftothatstretchofcountrywhichwasnowsochangedthathecouldnotfindinitonesingletokenofhispastlife.Andsoafewyearssufficedtoeffacethespotwhereonehadlaboured,loved,andsuffered!Whatwastheuseofman’svainagitationifthewindbehindhimsweptandcarriedawayallthetracesofhisfootsteps?Hehadrightlyrealisedthatheoughtnottoreturnthither,forthepastissimplythecemeteryofourillusions,whereourfeetforeverstumbleagainsttombstones!

‘Letusgo!’hecried;‘letusgoatonce!It’sstupidtotortureone’sheartlikethis!’

Whentheywereonthenewbridge,Sandoztriedtocalmhimbyshowinghimtheviewwhichhadnotformerlyexisted,thewidenedbedoftheSeine,fulltothebrim,asitwere,andthewaterflowingonward,proudlyandslowly.ButthiswaterfailedtointerestClaude,untilhereflectedthatitwasthesamewaterwhich,asitpassedthroughParis,hadbathedtheoldquaywallsoftheCite;andthenhefelttouched,heleantovertheparapetofthebridgeforamoment,andthoughtthathecoulddistinguishgloriousreflectionsinit—thetowersofNotre–Dame,andtheneedle–likespireoftheSainte–Chapelle,carriedalongbythecurrenttowardsthesea.

Thetwofriendsmissedthethreeo’clocktrain,anditwasrealtorturetohavetospendtwolonghoursmoreinthatregion,whereeverythingweighedsoheavilyontheirshoulders.Fortunately,theyhadforewarnedChristineandMadameSandozthattheymightreturnbyanighttrainiftheyweredetained.SotheyresolveduponabachelordinneratarestaurantonthePlaceduHavre,hopingtosetthemselvesallrightagainbyagoodchatatdessertasinformertimes.Eighto’clockwasabouttostrikewhentheysatdowntotable.

Claude,onleavingtheterminus,withhisfeetoncemoreontheParispavement,hadlosthisnervousagitation,likeamanwhoatlastfindshimselfoncemoreathome.Andwiththecold,absent–mindedairwhichhenowusuallydisplayed,helistenedtoSandoztryingtoenlivenhim.Thenovelisttreatedhisfriendlikeamistresswhoseheadhewishedtoturn;theypartookofdelicate,highlyspiceddishesandheadywines.Butmirthwasrebellious,andSandozhimselfendedbybecominggloomy.Allhishopesofimmortalitywereshakenbyhisexcursiontothatungratefulcountryvillage,thatBennecourt,solovedandsoforgetful,whereheandClaudehadnotfoundasinglestoneretaininganyrecollectionofthem.Ifthingswhichareeternalforgetsosoon,canoneplaceanyrelianceforonehouronthememoryofman?

‘Doyouknow,oldfellow,’saidthenovelist,‘it’sthatwhichsometimessendsmeintoacoldsweat.Haveyoueverreflectedthatposteritymaynotbethefaultlessdispenserofjusticethatwedreamof?Oneconsolesoneselfforbeinginsultedanddenied,byrelyingontheequityofthecenturiestocome;justasthefaithfulendurealltheabominationsofthisearthinthefirmbeliefofanotherlife,inwhicheachwillberewardedaccordingtohisdeserts.ButsupposeParadiseexistsnomorefortheartistthanitdoesfortheCatholic,supposethatfuturegenerationsprolongthemisunderstandingandpreferamiablelittletriflestovigorousworks!Ah!whatasellitwouldbe,eh?Tohaveledaconvict’slife—tohavescrewedoneselfdowntoone’swork—allforameredelusion!Pleasenoticethatit’squitepossible,afterall.TherearesomeconsecratedreputationswhichIwouldn’tgivearapfor.Classicaleducationhasdeformedeverything,andhasimposeduponusasgeniusesmenofcorrect,faciletalent,whofollowthebeatentrack.Tothemonemayprefermenoffreetendencies,whoseworkisattimesunequal;buttheseareonlyknowntoafewpeopleofrealculture,sothatitlooksasifimmortalitymightreallygomerelytothemiddle–class“average”talent,tothemenwhosenamesareforcedintoourbrainsatschool,whenwearenotstrongenoughtodefendourselves.Butno,no,onemustn’tsaythosethings;theymakemeshudder!ShouldIhavethecouragetogoonwithmytask,shouldIbeabletoremainerectamidallthejeeringaroundmeifIhadn’ttheconsolingillusionthatIshallsomedaybeappreciated?’

Claudehadlistenedwithhisdolorousexpression,andhenowmadeagestureofindifferencetingedwithbitterness.

‘Bah!whatdoesitmatter?Well,there’snothinghereafter.Weareevenmadderthanthefoolswhokillthemselvesforawoman.Whentheearthsplitstopiecesinspacelikeadrywalnut,ourworkswon’taddoneatomtoitsdust.’

‘That’squitetrue,’summedupSandoz,whowasverypale.‘What’stheuseoftryingtofillupthevoidofspace?Andtothinkthatweknowit,andthatourpridestillbattlesallthesame!’

Theylefttherestaurant,roamedaboutthestreets,andfounderedagaininthedepthsofacafe,wheretheyphilosophised.Theyhadcomebydegreestorakingupthememoriesoftheirchildhood,andthisendedbyfillingtheirheartswithsadness.Oneo’clockinthemorningstruckwhentheydecidedtogohome.

However,SandoztalkedofseeingClaudeasfarastheRueTourlaque.ThatAugustnightwasasuperbone,theairwaswarm,theskystuddedwithstars.AndastheywenttheroundbywayoftheQuartierdel’Europe,theypassedbeforetheoldCafeBaudequinontheBoulevarddesBatignolles.Ithadchangedhandsthreetimes.Itwasnolongerarrangedinsideinthesamemannerasformerly;therewerenowacoupleofbilliardtablesontherighthand;andseveralstrataofcustomershadfollowedeachotherthither,onecoveringtheother,sothattheoldfrequentershaddisappearedlikeburiednations.However,curiosity,theemotiontheyhadderivedfromallthepastthingstheyhadbeenrakinguptogether,inducedthemtocrosstheboulevardandtoglanceintothecafethroughtheopendoorway.Theywantedtoseetheirtableofyore,onthelefthand,rightatthebackoftheroom.

‘Oh,look!’saidSandoz,stupefied.

‘Gagniere!’mutteredClaude.

ItwasindeedGagniere,seatedallaloneatthattableattheendoftheemptycafe.HemusthavecomefromMelunforoneoftheSundayconcertstowhichhetreatedhimself;andthen,intheevening,whileastrayinParis,anoldhabitofhislegshadledhimtotheCafeBaudequin.Notoneofthecomradeseversetfoottherenow,andhe,whohadbeheldanotherage,obstinatelyremainedtherealone.Hehadnotyettouchedhisglassofbeer;hewaslookingatit,soabsorbedinthoughtthathedidnotevenstirwhenthewaitersbeganpilingthechairsonthetables,inorderthateverythingmightbereadyforthemorrow’ssweeping.

Thetwofriendshurriedoff,upsetbythesightofthatdimfigure,seizedasitwerewithachildishfearofghosts.TheypartedintheRueTourlaque.

‘Ah!thatpoordevilDubuche!’saidSandozashepressedClaude’shand,‘hespoiltourdayforus.’

AssoonasNovemberhadcomeround,andwhenalltheoldfriendswerebackinParisagain,SandozthoughtofgatheringthemtogetheratoneofthoseThursdaydinnerswhichhadremainedahabitwithhim.Theywerealwayshisgreatestdelight.Thesaleofhisbookswasincreasing,andhewasgrowingrich;theflatintheRuedeLondreswasbecomingquiteluxuriouscomparedwiththelittlehouseatBatignolles;buthehimselfremainedimmutable.Onthisoccasion,hewasanxious,inhisgoodnature,toprocurerealenjoymentforClaudebyorganisingoneofthedeareveningsoftheiryouth.Sohesawtotheinvitations;ClaudeandChristinenaturallymustcome;nextJoryandhiswife,thelatterofwhomithadbeennecessarytoreceivesincehermarriage,thenDubuche,whoalwayscamealone,withFagerolles,Mahoudeau,andfinallyGagniere.Therewouldbetenofthem—allthemencomradesoftheoldband,withoutasingleoutsider,inorderthatthegoodunderstandingandjollitymightbecomplete.

Henriette,whowasmoremistrustfulthanherhusband,hesitatedwhenthislistofguestswasdecidedupon.

‘Oh!Fagerolles?YoubelieveinhavingFagerolleswiththeothers?Theyhardlylikehim—norClaudeeither;IfanciedInoticedacoolness—’

Butheinterruptedher,bentonnotadmittingit.

‘What!acoolness?It’sreallyfunny,butwomencan’tunderstandthatfellowschaffeachother.Allthatdoesn’tpreventthemfromhavingtheirheartsintherightplace.’

HenriettetookespecialcareinpreparingthemenuforthatThursdaydinner.Shenowhadquitealittlestafftooverlook,acook,aman–servant,andsoon;andifshenolongerpreparedanyofthedishesherself,shestillsawthatverydelicatefarewasprovided,outofaffectionforherhusband,whosesolevicewasgluttony.Shewenttomarketwiththecook,andcalledinpersononthetradespeople.Sheandherhusbandhadatasteforgastronomicalcuriositiesfromthefourcornersoftheworld.Onthisoccasiontheydecidedtohavesomeox–tailsoup,grilledmullet,undercutofbeefwithmushrooms,raviolisintheItalianfashion,hazel–hensfromRussia,andasaladoftruffles,withoutcountingcaviareandkilkisasside–dishes,aglacepralinee,andalittleemerald–colouredHungariancheese,withfruitandpastry.Aswine,someoldBordeauxclaretindecanters,

chambertinwiththeroast,andsparklingmoselleatdessert,inlieuofchampagne,whichwasvotedcommonplace.

Atseveno’clockSandozandHenriettewerewaitingfortheirguests,hesimplywearingajacket,andshelookingveryelegantinaplaindressofblacksatin.Peopledinedattheirhouseinfrock–coats,withoutanyfuss.Thedrawing–room,thearrangementsofwhichtheywerenowcompleting,wasbecomingcrowdedwitholdfurniture,oldtapestry,nick–nacksofallcountriesandalltimes—arisingandnowoverflowingstreamofthingswhichhadtakensourceatBatignolleswithanoldpotofRouenware,whichHenriettehadgivenherhusbandononeofhisfetedays.Theyranabouttothecuriosityshopstogether;ajoyfulpassionforbuyingpossessedthem.Sandozsatisfiedthelongingsofhisyouth,theromanticistambitionswhichthefirstbookshehadreadhadgivenbirthto.Thusthiswriter,sofiercelymodern,livedamidtheworm–eatenmiddleageswhichhehaddreamtofwhenhewasaladoffifteen.Asanexcuse,helaughinglydeclaredthathandsomemodernfurniturecosttoomuch,whilstwitholdthings,evencommonones,youimmediatelyobtainedsomethingwitheffectandcolour.Therewasnothingofthecollectorabouthim,hewasentirelyconcernedastodecorationandbroadeffects;andtotellthetruth,thedrawing–room,lightedbytwolampsofoldDelftware,hadquiteasoftwarmtintwiththedullgoldofthedalmaticasusedforupholsteringtheseats,theyellowishincrustationsoftheItaliancabinetsandDutchshow–cases,thefadedhuesoftheOrientaldoor–hangings,thehundredlittlenotesoftheivory,crockeryandenamelwork,palewithage,whichshowedagainstthedullredhangingsoftheroom.

ClaudeandChristinewerethefirsttoarrive.Thelatterhadputonheronlysilkdress—anold,worn–outgarmentwhichshepreservedwithespecialcareforsuchoccasions.Henrietteatoncetookholdofbothherhandsanddrewhertoasofa.Shewasveryfondofher,andquestionedher,seeinghersostrange,touchinglypale,andwithanxiouseyes.Whatwasthematter?Didshefeelpoorly?No,no,sheansweredthatshewasverygayandverypleasedtocome;butwhileshespoke,shekeptonglancingatClaude,asiftostudyhim,andthenlookedaway.Heseemedexcited,evincingafeverishnessinhiswordsandgestureswhichhehadnotshownforamonthpast.Atintervals,however,hisagitationsubsided,andheremainedsilent,withhiseyeswideopen,gazingvacantlyintospaceatsomethingwhichhefanciedwascallinghim.

‘Ah!oldman,’hesaidtoSandoz,‘Ifinishedreadingyourbooklastnight.It’sdeucedlyclever;youhaveshutuptheirmouthsthistime!’

Theybothtalkedstandinginfrontofthechimney–piece,wheresomelogswereblazing.Sandozhadindeedjustpublishedanewnovel,andalthoughhiscriticsdidnotdisarm,therewasatlastthatstirofsuccesswhichestablishesaman’sreputationdespitethepersistentattacksofhisadversaries.Besides,hehadnoillusions;heknewverywellthatthebattle,evenifitwerewon,wouldbeginagainateachfreshbookhewrote.Thegreatworkofhislifewasadvancing,thatseriesofnovelswhichhelaunchedforthinvolumesoneafteranotherinstubborn,regularfashion,marchingtowardsthegoalhehadselectedwithoutlettinganything,obstacles,insults,orfatigue,conquerhim.

‘It’strue,’hegailyreplied,‘theyareweakeningthistime.There’sevenonewhohasbeenfoolishenoughtoadmitthatI’manhonestman!Seehoweverythingdegenerates!Butthey’llmakeupforit,neverfear!Iknowsomeofthemwhosenutsaretoomuchunlike

myowntoletthemacceptmyliteraryformula,myboldnessoflanguage,andmyphysiologicalcharactersactingundertheinfluenceofcircumstances;andIrefertobrotherwriterswhopossessself–respect;Ileavethefoolsandthescoundrelsononeside.Foramantobeabletoworkonpluckily,itisbestforhimtoexpectneithergoodfaithnorjustice.Tobeintherighthemustbeginbydying.’

AtthisClaude’seyesabruptlyturnedtowardsacornerofthedrawing–room,asiftopiercethewallandgofarawayyonder,whithersomethinghadsummonedhim.Thentheybecamehazyandreturnedfromtheirjourney,whilstheexclaimed:

‘Oh!youspeakforyourself!Ishoulddowrongtokickthebucket.Nomatter,yourbooksentmeintoadeucedfever.Iwantedtopaintto–day,butIcouldn’t.Ah!it’sluckythatIcan’tgetjealousofyou,elseyouwouldmakemetoounhappy.’

However,thedoorhadopened,andMathildecamein,followedbyJory.Shewasrichlyattiredinatunicofnasturtium–huedvelvetandaskirtofstraw–colouredsatin,withdiamondsinherearsandalargebouquetofrosesonherbosom.WhatastonishedClaudethemostwasthathedidnotrecogniseher,forshehadbecomeplump,round,andfairskinned,insteadofthinandsunburntashehadknownher.Herdisturbinguglinesshaddepartedinaswellingoftheface;hermouth,oncenotedforitsblackvoids,nowdisplayedteethwhichlookedover–whitewhenevershecondescendedtosmile,withadisdainfulcurlingoftheupperlip.Youcouldguessthatshehadbecomeimmoderatelyrespectable;herfiveandfortysummersgaveherweightbesideherhusband,whowasyoungerthanherselfandseemedtobehernephew.Theonlythingofyorethatclungtoherwasaviolentperfume;shedrenchedherselfwiththestrongestessences,asifshehadbeenanxioustowashfromherskinthesmellofallthearomaticsimpleswithwhichshehadbeenimpregnatedbyherherbalistbusiness;however,thesharpnessofrhubarb,thebitternessofelder–seed,andthewarmthofpeppermintclungtoher;andassoonasshecrossedthedrawing–room,itwasfilledwithanundefinablesmelllikethatofachemist’sshop,relievedbyanacuteodourofmusk.

Henriette,whohadrisen,madehersitdownbesideChristine,saying:

‘Youknoweachother,don’tyou?Youhavealreadymethere.’

Mathildegavebutacoldglanceatthemodestattireofthatwomanwhohadlivedforalongtimewithaman,soitwassaid,beforebeingmarriedtohim.Sheherselfwasexceedinglyrigidrespectingsuchmatterssincethetoleranceprevailinginliteraryandartisticcircleshadadmittedhertoafewdrawing–rooms.Henriettehatedher,however,andafterthecustomaryexchangeofcourtesies,nottobedispensedwith,resumedherconversationwithChristine.

JoryhadshakenhandswithClaudeandSandoz,and,standingnearthem,infrontofthefireplace,heapologisedforanarticleslashingthenovelist’snewbookwhichhadappearedthatverymorninginhisreview.

‘Asyouknowverywell,mydearfellow,oneisneverthemasterinone’sownhouse.Ioughttoseetoeverything,butIhavesolittletime!Ihadn’tevenreadthatarticle,Ireliedonwhathadbeentoldmeaboutit.SoyouwillunderstandhowenragedIwaswhenIreaditthisafternoon.Iamdreadfullygrieved,dreadfullygrieved—’

‘Oh,letitbe!It’sthenaturalorderofthings,’repliedSandoz,quietly.‘Nowthatmyenemiesarebeginningtopraiseme,it’sonlyproperthatmyfriendsshouldattackme.’

Thedooragainopened,andGagniereglidedinsoftly,likeawill–o’–the–wisp.HehadcomestraightfromMelun,andwasquitealone,forhenevershowedhiswifetoanybody.Whenhethuscametodinnerhebroughtthecountrydustwithhimonhisboots,andcarrieditbackwithhimthesamenightontakingthelasttrain.Ontheotherhand,hedidnotalter;or,rather,ageseemedtorejuvenatehim;hiscomplexionbecamefairerashegrewold.

‘Hallo!Why,Gagniere’shere!’exclaimedSandoz.

Then,justasGagnierewasmakinguphismindtobowtotheladies,Mahoudeauentered.Hehadalreadygrowngrey,withasunken,fierce–lookingfaceandchildish,blinkingeyes.Hestillworetrouserswhichwereagooddealtooshortforhim,andafrock–coatwhichcreasedintheback,inspiteofthemoneywhichhenowearned;forthebronzemanufacturerforwhomheworkedhadbroughtoutsomecharmingstatuettesofhis,whichonebegantoseeonmiddle–classmantel–shelvesandconsoles.

SandozandClaudehadturnedround,inquisitivetowitnessthemeetingbetweenMahoudeauandMathilde.However,matterspassedoffveryquietly.Thesculptorbowedtoherrespectfully,whileJory,thehusband,withhisairofsereneunconsciousness,thoughtfittointroducehertohim,forthetwentiethtime,perhaps.

‘Eh!It’smywife,oldfellow.Shakehandstogether.’

Thereupon,bothverygrave,likepeopleofsocietywhoareforcedsomewhatover–promptlyintofamiliarity,MathildeandMahoudeaushookhands.Only,assoonasthelatterhadgotridofthejobandhadfoundGagniereinacornerofthedrawing–room,theybothbegansneeringandrecalling,interriblelanguage,alltheabominationsofyore.

Dubuchewasexpectedthatevening,forhehadformallypromisedtocome.

‘Yes,’explainedHenriette,‘therewillonlybenineofus.Fagerolleswrotethismorningtoapologise;heisforcedtogotosomeofficialdinner,buthehopestoescape,andwilljoinusatabouteleveno’clock.’

Atthatmoment,however,aservantcameinwithatelegram.ItwasfromDubuche,whowired:‘Impossibletostir.Alicehasanalarmingcough.’

‘Well,weshallonlybeeight,then,’resumedHenriette,withthesomewhatpeevishresignationofahostessdisappointedbyherguests.

Andtheservanthavingopenedthedining–roomdoorandannouncedthatdinnerwasready,sheadded:

‘Weareallhere.Claude,offermeyourarm.’

SandoztookMathilde’s,JorychargedhimselfwithChristine,whileMahoudeauandGagnierebroughtuptherear,stilljokingcoarselyaboutwhattheycalledthebeautifulherbalist’spadding.

Thedining–roomwhichtheynowenteredwasveryspacious,andthelightwasgailybrightafterthesubduedilluminationofthedrawing–room.Thewalls,coveredwith

specimensofoldearthenware,displayedagaymedleyofcolours,remindingoneofcheapcolouredprints.Twosideboards,oneladenwithglassandtheotherwithsilverplate,sparkledlikejewellers’show–cases.Andinthecentreoftheroom,underthebighanginglampgirtroundwithtapers,thetableglistenedlikeacatafalquewiththewhitenessofitscloth,laidinperfectstyle,withdecoratedplates,cut–glassdecanterswhitewithwaterorruddywithwine,andsymmetricalside–dishes,allsetoutaroundthecentre–piece,asilverbasketfullofpurpleroses.

Theysatdown,HenriettebetweenClaudeandMahoudeau,SandozwithMathildeandChristinebesidehim,JoryandGagniereateitherend;andtheservanthadbarelyfinishedservingthesoup,whenMadameJorymadeamostunfortunateremark.Wishingtoshowherselfamiable,andnothavingheardherhusband’sapologies,shesaidtothemasterofthehouse:

‘Well,wereyoupleasedwiththearticleinthismorning’snumber?Edouardpersonallyrevisedtheproofswiththegreatestcare!’

Onhearingthis,Jorybecameverymuchconfusedandstammered:

‘No,no!youaremistaken!Itwasaverybadarticleindeed,andyouknowverywellthatitwas“passed”theothereveningwhileIwasaway.’

Bythesilentembarrassmentwhichensuedsheguessedherblunder.Butshemademattersstillworse,for,givingherhusbandasharpglance,sheretortedinaveryloudvoice,soastocrushhim,asitwere,anddisengageherownresponsibility:

‘Anotherofyourlies!Irepeatwhatyoutoldme.Iwon’tallowyoutomakemeridiculous,doyouhear?’

Thisthrewachilloverthebeginningofthedinner.Henrietterecommendedthekilkis,butChristinealonefoundthemverynice.Whenthegrilledmulletappeared,Sandoz,whowasamusedbyJory’sembarrassment,gailyremindedhimofalunchtheyhadhadtogetheratMarseillesintheolddays.Ah!Marseilles,theonlycitywherepeopleknowhowtoeat!

Claude,whoforalittlewhilehadbeenabsorbedinthought,nowseemedtoawakenfromadream,andwithoutanytransitionheasked:

‘Isitdecided?HavetheyselectedtheartistsforthenewdecorationsoftheHoteldeVille?’

‘No,’saidMahoudeau,‘theyaregoingtodoso.Isha’n’tgetanything,forIdon’tknowanybody.Fagerolleshimselfisveryanxious.Ifheisn’thereto–night,it’sbecausemattersarenotgoingsmoothly.Ah!hehashadhisbiteatthecherry;allthatpaintingformillionsiscrackingtobits!’

Therewasalaugh,expressiveofspitefinallysatisfied,andevenGagniereattheotherendofthetablejoinedinthesneering.Thentheyeasedtheirfeelingsinmaliciouswords,andrejoicedoverthesuddenfallofpriceswhichhadthrowntheworldof‘youngmasters’intoconsternation.Itwasinevitable,thepredictedtimewascoming,theexaggeratedrisewasabouttofinishinacatastrophe.Sincetheamateurshadbeenpanic–stricken,seizedwithconsternationlikethatofspeculatorswhena‘slump’sweepsoveraStockExchange,pricesweregivingwaydaybyday,andnothingmorewassold.Itwasasighttoseethe

famousNaudetamidtherout;hehadheldoutatfirst,hehadinvented‘thedodgeoftheYankee’—theuniquepicturehiddendeepinsomegallery,insolitudelikeanidol—thepictureofwhichhewouldnotnametheprice,beingcontemptuouslycertainthathecouldneverfindamanrichenoughtopurchaseit,butwhichhefinallysoldfortwoorthreehundredthousandfrancstosomepig–dealerofChicago,whofeltgloriousatcarryingoffthemostexpensivecanvasoftheyear.Butthosefinestrokesofbusinesswerenottoberenewedatpresent,andNaudet,whoseexpenditurehadincreasedwithhisgains,drawnonandswallowedupinthemadcrazewhichwashisownwork,couldnowhearhisregalmansioncrumblingbeneathhim,andwasreducedtodefenditagainsttheassaultofcreditors.

‘Won’tyoutakesomemoremushrooms,Mahoudeau?’obliginglyinterruptedHenriette.

Theservantwasnowhandingroundtheundercut.Theyate,andemptiedthedecanters;buttheirbitternesswassogreatthatthebestthingswereofferedwithoutbeingtasted,whichdistressedthemasterandmistressofthehouse.

‘Mushrooms,eh?’thesculptorendedbyrepeating.‘No,thanks.’Andheadded:‘Thefunnypartofitallis,thatNaudetissuingFagerolles.Oh,quiteso!he’sgoingtodistrainonhim.Ah!itmakesmelaugh!WeshallseeaprettyscouringintheAvenuedeVilliersamongallthosepettypainterswithmansionsoftheirown.Housepropertywillgofornothingnextspring!Well,Naudet,whohadcompelledFagerollestobuildahouse,andwhofurnisheditforhimashewouldhavefurnishedaplaceforahussy,wantedtogetholdofhisnick–nacksandhangingsagain.ButFagerolleshadborrowedmoneyonthem,soitseems.Youcanimaginethestateofaffairs;thedealeraccusestheartistofhavingspoilthisgamebyexhibitingwiththevanityofagiddyfool;whilethepainterrepliesthathedoesn’tmeantoberobbedanylonger;andthey’llendbydevouringeachother—atleast,Ihopeso.’

Gagniereraisedhisvoice,thegentlebutinexorablevoiceofadreamerjustawakened.

‘Fagerollesisdonefor.Besides,heneverhadanysuccess.’

Theothersprotested.Well,whataboutthehundredthousandfrancs’worthofpictureshehadsoldayear,andhismedalsandhiscrossoftheLegionofHonour?ButGagniere,stillobstinate,smiledwithamysteriousair,asiffactscouldnotprevailagainsthisinnerconviction.Hewaggedhisheadand,fullofdisdain,replied:

‘Letmebe!Heneverknewanythingaboutchiaroscuro.’

JorywasabouttodefendthetalentofFagerolles,whomheconsideredtobehisowncreation,whenHenriettesolicitedalittleattentionfortheraviolis.Therewasashortslackeningofthequarrelamidthecrystallineclinkingoftheglassesandthelightclatteroftheforks.Thetable,laidwithsuchfinesymmetry,wasalreadyinconfusion,andseemedtosparklestillmoreamidtheardentfireofthequarrel.AndSandoz,growinganxious,feltastonished.WhatwasthematterwiththemallthattheyattackedFagerollessoharshly?Hadn’ttheyallbeguntogether,andweretheynotalltoreachthegoalinthesamevictory?Forthefirsttime,afeelingofuneasinessdisturbedhisdreamofeternity,thatdelightinhisThursdays,whichhehadpicturedfollowingoneuponanother,allalike,allofthemhappyones,intothefardistanceofthefuture.Butthefeelingwasasyetonlyskindeep,andhelaughinglyexclaimed:

‘Husbandyourstrength,Claude,herearethehazel–hens.Eh!Claude,whereareyou?’

Sincesilencehadprevailed,Claudehadrelapsedintohisdream,gazingabouthimvacantly,andtakingasecondhelpofravioliswithoutknowingwhathewasabout;Christine,whosaidnothing,butsattherelookingsadandcharming,didnottakehereyesoffhim.HestartedwhenSandozspoke,andchosealegfromamidthebitsofhazel–hennowbeingserved,thestrongfumesofwhichfilledtheroomwitharesinoussmell.

‘Doyousmellthat?’exclaimedSandoz,amused;‘onewouldthinkonewereswallowingalltheforestsofRussia.’

ButClaudereturnedtothematterwhichworriedhim.

‘ThenyousaythatFagerolleswillbeentrustedwiththepaintingsfortheMunicipalCouncil’sassemblyroom?’

Andthisremarksufficed;MahoudeauandGagniere,setonthetrack,atoncestartedoffagain.Ah!anicewishy–washysmearingitwouldbeifthatassemblyroomwereallottedtohim;andhewasdoingplentyofdirtythingstogetit.He,whohadformerlypretendedtospitonordersforwork,likeagreatartistsurroundedbyamateurs,wasbaselycringingtotheofficials,nowthathispicturesnolongersold.Couldanythingmoredespicablebeimaginedthanapaintersolicitingafunctionary,bowingandscraping,showingallkindsofcowardiceandmakingallkindsofconcessions?ItwasshamefulthatartshouldbedependentuponaMinister’sidioticgoodpleasure!Fagerolles,atthatofficialdinnerhehadgoneto,wasnodoubtconscientiouslylickingthebootsofsomechiefclerk,someidiotwhowasonlyfittobemadeaguyof.

‘Well,’saidJory,‘heeffectshispurpose,andhe’squiteright.Youwon’tpayhisdebts.’

‘Debts?HaveIanydebts,Iwhohavealwaysstarved?’answeredMahoudeauinaroughlyarroganttone.‘OughtafellowtobuildhimselfapalaceandspendmoneyoncreatureslikethatIrmaBecot,who’sruiningFagerolles?’

AtthisJorygrewangry,whiletheothersjested,andIrma’snamewentflyingoverthetable.ButMathilde,whohadsofarremainedreservedandsilentbywayofmakingashowofgoodbreeding,becameintenselyindignant.‘Oh!gentlemen,oh!gentlemen,’sheexclaimed,‘totalkbeforeusaboutthatcreature.No,notthatcreature,Iimploreyou!

AfterthatHenrietteandSandoz,whowereinconsternation,witnessedtheroutoftheirmenu.Thetrufflesalad,theice,thedessert,everythingwasswallowedwithoutbeingatallappreciatedamidsttherisingangerofthequarrel;andthechambertinandsparklingmosellewereimbibedasiftheyhadmerelybeenwater.InvaindidHenriettesmile,whileSandozgood–naturedlytriedtocalmthembymakingallowancesforhumanweakness.Notoneofthemretreatedfromhisposition;asinglewordmadethemspringuponeachother.Therewasnoneofthevagueboredom,thesomniferoussatietywhichattimeshadsaddenedtheiroldgatherings;atpresenttherewasrealferocityinthestruggle,alongingtodestroyoneanother.Thetapersofthehanginglampflaredup,thepaintedflowersoftheearthenwareonthewallsbloomed,thetableseemedtohavecaughtfireamidtheupsettingofitssymmetricalarrangementsandtheviolenceofthetalk,thatdemolishingonslaughtofchatterwhichhadfilledthemwithfeverforacoupleofhourspast.

Andamidtheracket,whenHenriettemadeuphermindtorisesoastosilencethem,

Claudeatlengthremarked:

‘Ah!ifIonlyhadtheHoteldeVillework,andifIcould!ItusedtobemydreamtocoverallthewallsofParis!’

Theyreturnedtothedrawing–room,wherethelittlechandelierandthebracket–candelabrahadjustbeenlighted.Itseemedalmostcoldthereincomparisonwiththekindofhot–housewhichhadjustbeenleft;andforamomentthecoffeecalmedtheguests.NobodybeyondFagerolleswasexpected.Thehousewasnotanopenonebyanymeans,theSandozesdidnotrecruitliterarydependentsormuzzlethepressbydintofinvitations.Thewifedetestedsociety,andthehusbandsaidwithalaughthatheneededtenyearstotakealikingtoanybody,andthenhemustlikehimalways.Butwasnotthatrealhappiness,seldomrealised?Afewsoundfriendshipsandanookfulloffamilyaffection.Nomusicwaseverplayedthere,andnobodyhadeverreadapageofhiscompositionaloud.

OnthatparticularThursdaytheeveningseemedalongone,onaccountofthepersistentirritationofthemen.Theladieshadbeguntochatbeforethesmoulderingfire;andwhentheservant,afterclearingthetable,reopenedthedoorofthedining–room,theywereleftalone,themenrepairingtotheadjoiningapartmenttosmokeandsipsomebeer.

SandozandClaude,whowerenotsmokers,soonreturned,however,andsatdown,sidebyside,onasofanearthedoorway.Theformer,whowasgladtoseehisoldfriendexcitedandtalkative,recalledthememoriesofPlassansaproposofabitofnewshehadlearntthepreviousday.Pouillaud,theoldjesteroftheirdormitory,whohadbecomesogravealawyer,wasnowintroubleoversomeadventurewithawoman.Ah!thatbruteofaPouillaud!ButClaudedidnotanswer,for,havingheardhisnamementionedinthedining–room,helistenedattentively,tryingtounderstand.

Jory,Mahoudeau,andGagniere,unsatiatedandeagerforanotherbite,hadstartedonthemassacreagain.Theirvoices,atfirstmerewhispers,graduallygrewlouder,tillatlasttheybegantoshout.

‘Oh!theman,Iabandonthemantoyou,’saidJory,whowasspeakingofFagerolles.‘Heisn’tworthmuch.Andheout–generalledyou,it’strue.Ah!howhedidgetthebetterofyoufellows,bybreakingofffromyouandcarvingsuccessforhimselfonyourbacks!Youwerecertainlynotatallcute.’

Mahoudeau,waxingfurious,replied:

‘Ofcourse!ItsufficedforustobewithClaude,tobeturnedawayeverywhere.’

‘ItwasClaudewhodidforus!’soGagnieresquarelyasserted.

Andthustheywenton,relinquishingFagerolles,whomtheyreproachedfortoadyingthenewspapers,forallyinghimselfwiththeirenemiesandwheedlingsexagenarianbaronesses,tofalluponClaude,whonowbecamethegreatculprit.Well,afterall,theotherwasonlyahussy,oneofthemanyfoundintheartisticfraternity,fellowswhoaccostthepublicatstreetcorners,leavetheircomradesinthelurch,andvictimisethemsoastogetthebourgeoisintotheirstudios.ButClaude,thatabortivegreatartist,thatimpotentfellowwhocouldn’tsetafigureonitslegsinspiteofallhispride,hadn’theutterlycompromisedthem,hadn’thelettheminaltogether?Ah!yes,successmighthavebeen

wonbybreakingoff.Iftheyhadbeenabletobeginoveragain,theywouldn’thavebeenidiotsenoughtoclingobstinatelytoimpossibleprinciples!AndtheyaccusedClaudeofhavingparalysedthem,ofhavingtradedonthem—yes,tradedonthem,butinsoclumsyanddull–wittedamannerthathehimselfhadnotderivedanybenefitbyit.

‘Why,asforme,’resumedMahoudeau,‘didn’themakemequiteidioticatonemoment?WhenIthinkofit,Isoundmyself,andremainwonderingwhyIeverjoinedhisband.AmIatalllikehim?Wasthereeveranyonethingincommonbetweenus,eh?Ah!it’sexasperatingtofindthetruthoutsolateintheday!’

‘Andasformyself,’saidGagniere,‘herobbedmeofmyoriginality.Doyouthinkithasamusedme,eachtimeIhaveexhibitedapaintingduringthelastfifteenyears,tohearpeoplesayingbehindme,“That’saClaude!”Oh!I’vehadenoughofit,Iprefernottopaintanymore.Allthesame,ifIhadseenclearlyinformertimes,Ishouldn’thaveassociatedwithhim.’

Itwasastampede,thesnappingofthelastties,intheirstupefactionatsuddenlyfindingthattheywerestrangersandenemies,afteralongyouthoffraternitytogether.Lifehaddisbandedthemontheroad,andthegreatdissimilarityoftheircharactersstoodrevealed;allthatremainedinthemwasthebitternessleftbytheoldenthusiasticdream,thaterstwhilehopeofbattleandvictorytobewonsidebyside,whichnowincreasedtheirspite.

‘Thefactis,’sneeredJory,‘thatFagerollesdidnotlethimselfbepillagedlikeasimpleton.’

ButMahoudeau,feelingvexed,becameangry.‘Youdowrongtolaugh,’hesaid,‘foryouareanicebackslideryourself.Yes,youalwaystoldusthatyouwouldgiveusaliftupwhenyouhadapaperofyourown.’

‘Ah!allowme,allowme—’

Gagniere,however,unitedwithMahoudeau:‘That’squitetrue!’hesaid.‘Youcan’tsayanymorethatwhatyouwriteaboutusiscutout,foryouarethemasternow.Andyet,neveraword!Youdidn’tevennameusinyourarticlesonthelastSalon.’

ThenJory,embarrassedandstammering,inhisturnflewintoarage.

‘Ah!well,it’sthefaultofthatcursedClaude!Idon’tcaretolosemysubscriberssimplytopleaseyoufellows.It’simpossibletodoanythingforyou!There!doyouunderstand?You,Mahoudeau,maywearyourselfoutinproducingprettylittlethings;you,Gagniere,mayevenneverdoanythingmore;butyoueachhavealabelontheback,andyou’llneedtenyears’effortsbeforeyou’llbeabletogetitoff.Infact,therehavebeensomelabelsthatwouldnevercomeoff!Thepublicisamusedbyit,youknow;therewereonlyyoufellowstobelieveinthegeniusofthatbigridiculouslunatic,whowillbelockedupinamadhouseoneofthesefinemornings!’

Thenthedisputebecameterrible,theyallthreespokeatonce,comingatlasttoabominablereproaches,withsuchoutbursts,andsuchfuriousmotionofthejaw,thattheyseemedtobebitingoneanother.

Sandoz,seatedonthesofa,anddisturbedinthegaymemorieshewasrecalling,wasatlast

obligedtolendeartothetumultwhichreachedhimthroughtheopendoorway.

‘Youhearthem?’whisperedClaude,withadoloroussmile;‘theyaregivingitmenicely!No,no,stayhere,Iwon’tletyoustopthem;Ideserveit,sinceIhavefailedtosucceed.’

AndSandoz,turningpale,remainedthere,listeningtothatbitterquarrelling,theoutcomeofthestruggleforlife,thatgrapplingofconflictingpersonalities,whichboreallhischimeraofeverlastingfriendshipaway.

Henriette,fortunately,becameanxiousonhearingtheviolentshouting.Sheroseandwenttoshamethesmokersforthusforsakingtheladiestogoandquarreltogether.Theythenreturnedtothedrawing–room,perspiring,breathinghard,andstillshakenbytheiranger.AndasHenriette,withhereyesontheclock,remarkedthattheycertainlywouldnotseeFagerollesthatevening,they,begantosneeragain,exchangingglances.Ah!hehadafinescent,andnomistake;hewouldn’tbecaughtassociatingwitholdfriends,whohadbecometroublesome,andwhomhehated.

Infact,Fagerollesdidnotcome.Theeveningfinishedlaboriously.Theyoncemorewentbacktothedining–room,wheretheteawasservedonaRussiantableclothembroideredwithastag–huntinredthread;andunderthetapersaplaincakewasdisplayed,withplatesfullofsweetstuffandpastry,andabarbarouscollectionofliqueursandspirits,whisky,hollands,Chioraki,andkummel.Theservantalsobroughtsomepunch,andbestirredhimselfroundthetable,whilethemistressofthehousefilledtheteapotfromthesamovarboilinginfrontofher.Butallthecomfort,allthefeastfortheeyesandthefineperfumeoftheteadidnotmovetheirhearts.Theconversationagainturnedonthesuccessthatsomemenachievedandtheill–luckthatbefellothers.Forinstance,wasitnotshamefulthatartshouldbedishonouredbyallthosemedals,allthosecrosses,allthoserewards,whichweresobadlydistributedtoboot?Wereartistsalwaystoremainlikelittleboysatschool?Alltheuniversalplatitudecamefromthedocilityandcowardicewhichwereshown,asinthepresenceofushers,soastoobtaingoodmarks.

Theyhadrepairedtothedrawing–roomoncemore,andSandoz,whowasgreatlydistressed,hadbeguntowishthattheywouldtakethemselvesoff,whenhenoticedMathildeandGagniereseatedsidebysideonasofaandtalkinglanguishinglyofmusic,whiletheothersremainedexhausted,lackingsalivaandpowerofspeech.Gagnierephilosophisedandpoetisedinastateofecstasy,whileMathilderolleduphereyesandwentintorapturesasiftitillatedbysomeinvisiblewing.TheyhadcaughtsightofeachotheronthepreviousSundayattheconcertattheCirque,andtheyapprisedeachotheroftheirenjoymentinalternate,far–soaringsentences.

‘Ah!thatMeyerbeer,monsieur,theovertureof“Struensee,”thatfunerealstrain,andthenthatpeasantdance,sofullofdashandcolour;andthenthemournfulburdenwhichreturns,theduoofthevioloncellos.Ah!monsieur,thevioloncellos,thevioloncellos!’

‘AndBerlioz,madame,thefestivalairin“Romeo.”Oh!thesolooftheclarionets,thebelovedwomen,withtheharpaccompaniment!Somethingenrapturing,somethingwhiteassnowwhichascends!Thefestivalburstsuponyou,likeapicturebyPaulVeronese,withthetumultuousmagnificenceofthe“MarriageofCana”;andthenthelove–songbeginsagain,oh,howsoftly!Oh!alwayshigher!higherstill—’

‘Didyounotice,monsieur,inBeethoven’sSymphonyinA,thatknellwhicheverandever

comesbackandbeatsuponyourheart?Yes,Iseeverywell,youfeelasIdo,musicisacommunion—Beethoven,ah,me!howsadandsweetitistobetwotounderstandhimandgiveway—’

‘AndSchumann,madame,andWagner,madame—Schumann’s“Reverie,”nothingbutthestringedinstruments,awarmshowerfallingonacacialeaves,asunraywhichdriesthem,barelyatearinspace.Wagner!ah,Wagner!theovertureofthe“FlyingDutchman,”areyounotfondofit?—tellmeyouarefondofit!Asformyself,itovercomesme.Thereisnothingleft,nothingleft,oneexpires—’

Theirvoicesdiedaway;theydidnotevenlookateachother,butsatthereelbowtoelbow,withtheirfacesturnedupward,quiteovercome.

Sandoz,whowassurprised,askedhimselfwhereMathildecouldhavepickedupthatjargon.InsomearticleofJory’s,perhaps.Besides,hehadremarkedthatwomentalkmusicverywell,evenwithoutknowinganoteofit.Andhe,whomthebitternessoftheothershadonlygrieved,becameexasperatedatsightofMathilde’slanguishingattitude.No,no,thatwasquiteenough;thementoreeachothertobits;stillthatmightpass,afterall;butwhatanendtotheeveningitwas,thatfemininefraud,cooingandtitillatingherselfwiththoughtsofBeethoven’sandSchumann’smusic!Fortunately,Gagnieresuddenlyrose.Heknewwhato’clockitwaseveninthedepthsofhisecstasy,andhehadonlyjusttimelefthimtocatchhislasttrain.So,afterexchangingnervelessandsilenthandshakeswiththeothers,hewentofftosleepatMelun.

‘Whatafailureheis!’mutteredMahoudeau.‘Musichaskilledpainting;he’llneverdoanything!’

Hehimselfhadtoleave,andthedoorhadscarcelyclosedbehindhisbackwhenJorydeclared:

‘Haveyouseenhislastpaperweight?He’llendbysculpturingsleeve–links.There’safellowwhohasmissedhismark!Tothinkthathepridedhimselfonbeingvigorous!’

ButMathildewasalreadyafoot,takingleaveofChristinewithacurtlittleinclinationofthehead,affectingsocialfamiliaritywithHenriette,andcarryingoffherhusband,whohelpedheronwithhercloakintheante–room,humbleandterrifiedatthesevereglanceshegavehim,forshehadanaccounttosettle.

Then,thedoorhavingclosedbehindthem,Sandoz,besidehimself,criedout:‘That’stheend!Thejournalistwasboundtocalltheothersabortions—yes,thejournalistwho,afterpatchinguparticles,hasfallentotradinguponpubliccredulity!Ah!luckilythere’sMathildetheAvengeress!’

OftheguestsChristineandClaudealonewereleft.Thelatter,sincethedrawing–roomhadbeengrowingempty,hadremainedensconcedinthedepthsofanarm–chair,nolongerspeaking,butovercomebythatspeciesofmagneticslumberwhichstiffenedhim,andfixedhiseyesonsomethingfarawaybeyondthewalls.Heprotrudedhisface,aconvulsivekindofattentionseemedtocarryitforward;hecertainlybeheldsomethinginvisible,andheardasummonsinthesilence.

Christinehavingriseninherturn,andapologisedforbeingthelasttoleave,Henriettetookholdofherhands,repeatedhowfondshewasofher,beggedhertocomeandseeher

frequently,andtodisposeofherinallthingsasshewouldwithasister.ButClaude’ssorrowfulwife,lookingsosadlycharminginherblackdress,shookherheadwithapalesmile.

‘Come,’saidSandozinherear,aftergivingaglanceatClaude,‘youmustn’tdistressyourselflikethat.Hehastalkedagreatdeal,hehasbeengayerthisevening.He’sallright.’

Butinaterrifiedvoicesheanswered:

‘No,no;lookathiseyes—Ishalltrembleaslongashehashiseyeslikethat.Youhavedoneallyoucould,thanks.Whatyouhaven’tdonenoonewilldo.Ah!howIsufferatbeingunabletohope,atbeingunabletodoanything!’

Theninaloudtonesheasked:

‘Areyoucoming,Claude?’

Shehadtorepeatherquestiontwice,foratfirsthedidnothearher;heendedbystarting,however,androsetohisfeet,saying,asifhehadansweredthesummonsfromthehorizonafaroff:

‘Yes,I’mcoming,I’mcoming.’

WhenSandozandhiswifeatlastfoundthemselvesaloneinthedrawing–room,wheretheatmospherenowwasstifling—heatedbythelightsandheavy,asitwere,withmelancholysilenceafteralltheoutburstsofthequarrelling—theylookedatoneanotherandlettheirarmsfall,quiteheart–rentbytheunfortunateissueoftheirdinnerparty.Henriettatriedtolaughitoff,however,murmuring:

‘Iwarnedyou,Iquiteunderstood—’

Butheinterruptedherwithadespairinggesture.What!wasthat,then,theendofhislongillusion,thatdreamofeternitywhichhadmadehimsethappinessinafewfriendships,formedinchildhood,andshareduntilextremeoldage?Ah!whatawretchedband,whatafinalrending,whataterriblebalance–sheettoweepoverafterthatbankruptcyofthehumanheart!Andhegrewastonishedonthinkingofthefriendswhohadfallenoffbytheroadside,ofthegreataffectionslostontheway,oftheothersunceasinglychangingaroundhimself,inwhomhefoundnochange.HispoorThursdaysfilledhimwithpity,somanymemorieswereinmourning,itwastheslowdeathofallthatoneloves!Wouldhiswifeandhimselfhavetoresignthemselvestoliveasinadesert,tocloisterthemselvesinutterhatredoftheworld?Oughttheyrathertothrowtheirdoorswideopentoathrongofstrangersandindifferentfolk?Bydegreesacertaintydawnedinthedepthsofhisgrief:everythingendedandnothingbeganagaininlife.Heseemedtoyieldtoevidence,and,heavingabigsigh,exclaimed:

‘Youwereright.Wewon’tinvitethemtodinneragain—theywoulddevouroneanother.’

AssoonasClaudeandChristinereachedthePlacedelaTriniteontheirwayhome,thepainterletgoofhiswife’sarm;and,stammeringthathehadtogosomewhere,hebeggedhertoreturntotheRueTourlaquewithouthim.Shehadfelthimshuddering,andsheremainedquitescaredwithsurpriseandfear.Somewheretogoatthathour—pastmidnight!Wherehadhetogo,andwhatfor?Hehadturnedroundandwasmakingoff,

whensheovertookhim,and,pretendingthatshewasfrightened,beggedthathewouldnotleavehertoclimbuptoMontmartrealoneatthattimeofnight.Thisconsiderationalonebroughthimback.Hetookherarmagain;theyascendedtheRueBlancheandtheRueLepic,andatlastfoundthemselvesintheRueTourlaque.Andonreachingtheirdoor,herangthebell,andthenagainlefther.

‘Hereyouare,’hesaid;‘I’mgoing.’

Hewasalreadyhasteningaway,takinglongstrides,andgesticulatinglikeamadman.Withoutevenclosingthedoorwhichhadbeenopened,shedartedoff,bentonfollowinghim.IntheRueLepicshedrewnear;butforfearofexcitinghimstillmoreshecontentedherselfwithkeepinghiminsight,walkingsomethirtyyardsintherear,withouthisknowingthatshewasbehindhim.OnreachingtheendoftheRueLepichewentdowntheRueBlancheagain,andthenproceededbywayoftheRuedelaChaussee–d’AntinandtheRueduDixDecembreasfarastheRuedeRichelieu.Whenshesawhimturnintothelast–namedthoroughfare,amortalchillcameoverher:hewasgoingtowardstheSeine;itwastherealisationofthefrightfulfearwhichkeptherofanightawake,fullofanguish!Andwhatcouldshedo,goodLord?Gowithhim,hanguponhisneckoveryonder?Shewasnowonlyabletostaggeralong,andaseachstepbroughtthemnearertotheriver,shefeltlifeebbingfromherlimbs.Yes,hewasgoingstraightthere;hecrossedthePlaceduTheatreFrancais,thentheCarrousel,andfinallyreachedthePontdesSaints–Peres.Aftertakingafewstepsalongthebridge,heapproachedtherailingoverlookingthewater;andatthethoughtthathewasabouttojumpover,aloudcrywasstifledinhercontractedthroat.

Butno;heremainedmotionless.WasitthenonlytheCiteoveryonderthathauntedhim,thatheartofPariswhichpursuedhimeverywhere,whichheconjuredupwithhisfixedeyes,eventhroughwalls,andwhich,whenhewasleaguesaway,criedouttheconstantsummonsheardbyhimalone?Shedidnotyetdaretohopeit;shehadstoppedshort,intherear,watchinghimwithgiddyanxiety,everfancyingthatshesawhimtaketheterribleleap,butresistingherlongingtodrawnearer,forfearlestshemightprecipitatethecatastrophebyshowingherself.Oh,God!tothinkthatshewastherewithherdevouringpassion,herbleedingmotherlyheart—thatshewastherebeholdingeverything,withoutdaringtoriskonemovementtoholdhimback!

Hestooderect,lookingverytall,quitemotionless,andgazingintothenight.

Itwasawinter’snight,withamistyskyofsootyblackness,andwasrenderedextremelycoldbyasharpwindblowingfromthewest.Paris,lightedup,hadgonetosleep,showingnosignsoflifesavesuchasattachedtothegas–jets,thosespeckswhichscintillatedandgrewsmallerandsmallerinthedistancetilltheyseemedbutsomuchstarrydust.Thequaysstretchedawayshowingdoublerowsofthoseluminousbeadswhosereverberationglimmeredonthenearerfrontages.OntheleftwerethehousesoftheQuaiduLouvre,ontherightthetwowingsoftheInstitute,confusedmassesofmonumentsandbuildings,whichbecamelosttoviewinthedarkeninggloom,studdedwithsparks.Thenbetweenthosecordonsofburners,extendingasfarastheeyecouldreach,thebridgesstretchedbarsoflights,everslighterandslighter,eachformedofatrainofspangles,groupedtogetherandseeminglyhanginginmid–air.AndintheSeinethereshonethenocturnalsplendouroftheanimatedwaterofcities;eachgas–jettherecastareflectionofitsflame,

likethenucleusofacomet,extendingintoatail.Thenearerones,minglingtogether,setthecurrentonfirewithbroad,regular,symmetricalfansoflight,glowinglikeliveembers,whilethemoredistantones,seenunderthebridges,werebutlittlemotionlesssparksoffire.Butthelargeburningtailsappearedtobeanimated,theywaggledastheyspreadout,allblackandgold,withaconstanttwirlingofscales,inwhichonedivinedtheflowofthewater.ThewholeSeinewaslightedupbythem,asifsomefetewerebeinggiveninitsdepths—somemysterious,fairy–likeentertainment,atwhichcoupleswerewaltzingbeneaththeriver’sred–flashingwindow–panes.Highabovethosefires,abovethestarryquays,thesky,inwhichnotaplanetwasvisible,showedaruddymassofvapour,thatwarm,phosphorescentexhalationwhicheverynight,abovethesleepofthecity,seemstosetthecraterofavolcano.

Thewindblewhard,andChristine,shivering,hereyesfulloftears,feltthebridgemoveunderher,asifitwerebearingherawayamidasmashupofthewholescene.HadnotClaudemoved?Washenotclimbingovertherail?No;everythingbecamemotionlessagain,andshesawhimstillonthesamespot,obstinatelystiff,withhiseyesturnedtowardsthepointoftheCite,whichhecouldnotsee.

Ithadsummonedhim,andhehadcome,andyethecouldnotseeitinthedepthsofthedarkness.Hecouldonlydistinguishthebridges,withtheirlightframeworkstandingoutblacklyagainstthesparklingwater.Butfartheroffeverythingbecameconfused,theislandhaddisappeared,hecouldnotevenhavetolditsexactsituationifsomebelatedcabshadnotpassedfromtimetotimeoverthePont–Neuf,withtheirlampsshowinglikethoseshootingsparkswhichdartattimesthroughembers.Aredlantern,onalevelwiththedamoftheMint,castastreamletofblood,asitwere,intothewater.Somethinghugeandlugubrious,somedriftingform,nodoubtalighterwhichhadbecomeunmoored,slowlydescendedthestreamamidthereflections.Espiedforamoment,itwasimmediatelyafterwardslostinthedarkness.Wherehadthetriumphalislandsunk?Inthedepthsofthatflowofwater?Claudestillgazed,graduallyfascinatedbythegreatrushingoftheriverinthenight.Heleantoveritsbroadbed,chillylikeanabyss,inwhichthemysteriousflamesweredancing.Andtheloud,sadwailofthecurrentattractedhim,andhelistenedtoitscall,despairing,untodeath.

Byashootingpainatherheart,Christinethistimerealisedthattheterriblethoughthadjustoccurredtohim.Sheheldoutherquiveringhandswhichthewindwaslashing.ButClauderemainedthere,strugglingagainstthesweetnessofdeath;indeedhedidnotmoveforanotherhour,helingeredthereunconsciousofthelapseoftime,withhiseyesstillturnedinthedirectionoftheCite,asifbyamiracleofpowertheywereabouttocreatelight,andconjureuptheislandsothathemightbeholdit.

WhenClaudeatlastleftthebridge,withstumblingsteps,ChristinehadtopassinfrontandruninordertobehomeintheRueTourlaquebeforehim.

XIIITwasnearlythreeo’clockwhentheywenttobedthatnight,withthebittercoldNovemberwindblowingthroughtheirlittleroomandthebigstudio.Christine,breathlessfromherrun,hadquicklyslippedbetweenthesheetssothathemightnotknowthatshehadfollowedhim;andClaude,quiteovercome,hadtakenhisclothesoff,onegarmentafteranother,withoutsayingaword.Forlongmonthstheyhadbeenasstrangers;untilthen,however,shehadneverfeltsuchabarrierbetweenthem,suchtomb–likecoldness.

Shestruggledfornearlyaquarterofanhouragainstthesleepinesscomingoverher.Shewasverytired,andakindoftorpornumbedher;stillshewouldnotgiveway,feelinganxiousatleavinghimawake.Shethuswaitedeverynightuntilhedozedoff,sothatsheherselfmightafterwardssleepinpeace.Buthehadnotextinguishedthecandle,helaytherewithhiseyesopen,fixeduponitsflame.Whatcouldhebethinkingof?Hadheremainedinfancyoveryonderintheblacknight,amidthemoistatmosphereofthequays,infrontofParisstuddedwithstarslikeafrostysky?Andwhatinnerconflict,whatmatterthathadtobedecided,contractedhisfacelikethat?Then,resistancebeingimpossible,shesuccumbedandglidedintotheslumberfollowingupongreatweariness.

Anhourlater,theconsciousnessofsomethingmissing,theanguishofuneasinessawokeherwithasuddenstart.Sheatoncefeltthebedbesideher,itwasalreadycold:hewasnolongerthere,shehadalreadydivineditwhileasleep.Andshewasgrowingalarmed,stillbuthalfawake,herheadheavyandherearsbuzzing,whenthroughthedoorway,leftajar,sheperceivedarayoflightcomingfromthestudio.Shethenfeltreassured,shethoughtthatinafitofsleeplessnesshehadgonetofetchsomebookorother;butatlast,ashedidnotreturn,sheendedbysoftlyrisingsoastotakeapeep.Whatshebeheldquiteunsettledher,andkeptherstandingonthetiledfloor,withherfeetbare,insuchsurprisethatshedidnotatfirstdaretoshowherself.

Claude,whowasinhisshirt–sleeves,despitethecoldnessofthetemperature,havingmerelyputonhistrousersandslippersinhishaste,wasstandingonthestepsinfrontofhislargepicture.Hispalettewaslyingathisfeet,andwithonehandheheldthecandle,whilewiththeotherhepainted.Hiseyesweredilatedlikethoseofasomnambulist,hisgestureswerepreciseandstiff;hestoopedeveryminutetotakesomecolouronhisbrush,andthenroseup,castingalargefantasticshadowonthewall.Andtherewasnotasound;frightfulsilencereignedinthebigdimroom.

Christineguessedthetruthandshuddered.Thebesettingworry,mademoreacutebythathourspentonthePontdesSaints–Peres,hadpreventedhimfromsleepingandhadbroughthimoncemorebeforehiscanvas,consumedwithalongingtolookatitagain,inspiteofthelatenessofthehour.Hehad,nodoubt,onlyclimbedthestepstofillhiseyesthenearer.Then,torturedbythesightofsomefaultyshade,upsetbysomedefect,tosuchapointthathecouldnotwaitfordaylight,hehadcaughtupabrush,atfirstmerelywishingtogiveasimpletouch,andthenhadbeencarriedonfromcorrectiontocorrection,untilatlast,withthecandleinhishand,hepaintedtherelikeamaninastateofhallucination,amidthepalelightwhichdartedhitherandthitherashegesticulated.His

powerlesscreativeragehadseizedholdofhimagain,hewaswearinghimselfout,obliviousofthehour,obliviousoftheworld;hewishedtoinfuselifeintohisworkatonce.

Ah,whatapitifulsight!Andwithwhattear–drenchedeyesdidChristinegazeathim!Atfirstshethoughtofleavinghimtothatmadwork,asamaniacislefttothepleasuresofhiscraziness.Hewouldneverfinishthatpicture,thatwasquitecertainnow.Themoredesperatelyheworkedatit,themoreincoherentdiditbecome;thecolouringhadgrownheavyandpasty,thedrawingwaslosingshapeandshowingsignsofeffort.Eventhebackgroundandthegroupoflabourers,oncesosubstantialandsatisfactory,weregettingspoiled;yetheclungtothem,hehadobstinatelydeterminedtofinisheverythingelsebeforerepaintingthecentralfigure,thenudewoman,whichremainedthedreadandthedesireofhishoursoftoil,andwhichwouldfinishhimoffwheneverhemightagaintrytoinvestitwithlife.Formonthshehadnottouchedit,andthishadtranquillisedChristineandmadehertolerantandcompassionate,amidherjealousspite;foraslongashedidnotreturntothatfearedanddesiredmistress,shethoughtthathebetrayedherless.

Herfeetwerefreezingonthetiles,andshewasturningtogetintobedagainwhenashockbroughtherbacktothedoor.Shehadnotunderstoodatfirst,butnowatlastshesaw.Withbroadcurvedstrokesofhisbrush,fullofcolour,Claudewasatoncewildlyandcaressinglymodellingflesh.Hehadafixedgrinonhislips,anddidnotfeeltheburningcandle–greasefallingonhisfingers,whilewithsilent,passionatesee–sawing,hisrightarmalonemovedagainstthewall,castingblackconfusionuponit.Hewasworkingatthenudewoman.

ThenChristineopenedthedoorandwalkedintothestudio.Aninvinciblerevolt,theangerofawifebuffetedathome,impelledherforward.Yes,hewaswiththatother,hewaspaintingherlikeavisionary,whomwildcravingfortruthhadbroughttothemadnessoftheunreal;andthoselimbswerebeinggildedlikethecolumnsofatabernacle,thattrunkwasbecomingastar,shimmeringwithyellowandred,splendidandunnatural.Suchstrangenudity—likeuntoamonstrancegleamingwithpreciousstonesandintendedforreligiousadoration—broughtherangertoaclimax.Shehadsufferedtoomuch,shewouldnottolerateit.

Andyetatfirstshesimplyshowedherselfdespairingandsupplicating.Itwasbutthemotherremonstratingwithherbigmadboyofanartistthatspoke.

‘Whatareyoudoingthere,Claude?Isitreasonable,Claude,tohavesuchideas?Cometobed,Ibegofyou,don’tstayonthosestepswhereyouwillcatchyourdeathofcold!’

Hedidnotanswer;hestoopedagaintotakesomemorepaintonhisbrush,andmadethefigureflashwithtwobrightstrokesofvermilion.

‘Listentome,Claude,inpitycometome—youknowthatIloveyou—youseehowanxiousyouhavemademe.Come,oh!come,ifyoudon’twantmetodieofcoldandwaitingforyou.’

Withhisfacehaggard,hedidnotlookather;butwhilehebedeckedapartofthefigurewithcarmine,hegrumbledinahuskyvoice:

‘Justleavemealone,willyou?I’mworking.’

Christineremainedsilentforamoment.Shewasdrawingherselferect,hereyesbegantogleamwithfire,rebellioninflatedhergentle,charmingform.Thensheburstforth,withthegrowlofaslavedriventoextremities.

‘Well,no,Iwon’tleaveyoualone!I’vehadenoughofit.I’lltellyouwhat’sstiflingme,whathasbeenkillingmeeversinceIhaveknownyou.Ah!thatpainting,yes,yourpainting,she’sthemurderesswhohaspoisonedmylife!Ihadapresentimentofitonthefirstday;yourpaintingfrightenedmeasifitwereamonster.Ifounditabominable,execrable;butthen,one’scowardly,Ilovedyoutoomuchnottolikeitalso;Iendedbygrowingaccustomedtoit!Butlateron,howIsuffered!—howittorturedme!FortenyearsIdon’trecollecthavingspentadaywithoutsheddingtears.No,leaveme!Iameasingmymind,Imustspeakout,sinceIhavefoundstrengthenoughtodoso.FortenyearsIhavebeenabandonedandcrushedeveryday.Ah!tobenothingmoretoyou,tofeelmyselfcastmoreandmoreononeside,tofalltotherankofaservant;andtoseethatotherone,thatthief,placeherselfbetweenyouandmeandclutchholdofyouandtriumphandinsultme!Fordare,yes,daretosaythatshehasn’ttakenpossessionofyou,limbbylimb,glidedintoyourbrain,yourheart,yourflesh,everywhere!Sheholdsyoulikeavice,shefeedsonyou;infact,she’syourwife,notI.She’stheonlyoneyoucarefor!Ah!thecursedwretch,thehussy!’

Claudewasnowlisteningtoher,inhisastonishmentatthatdolorousoutburst;andbeingbuthalfrousedfromhisexasperatedcreativedream,hedidnotasyetverywellunderstandwhyshewastalkingtohimlikethat.Andatsightofhisstupor,theshudderingofamansurprisedinadebauch,sheflewintoastillgreaterpassion;shemountedthesteps,torethecandlestickfromhishand,andinherturnflashedthelightinfrontofthepicture.

‘Justlook!’shecried,‘justtellmehowyouhaveimprovedmatters?It’shideous,it’slamentableandgrotesque;you’llendbyseeingsoyourself.Come,isn’titugly,isn’titidiotic?Youseeverywellthatyouareconquered,sowhyshouldyoupersistanylonger?Thereisnosenseinit,that’swhatupsetsme.Ifyoucan’tbeagreatpainter,life,atleast,remainstous.Ah!life,life!’

Shehadplacedthecandleontheplatformofthesteps,andashehadgonedown,staggering,shesprangofftojoinhim,andtheybothfoundthemselvesbelow,hecrouchingonthelaststep,andshepressinghisinert,danglinghandswithallherstrength.

‘Come,there’slife!Driveyournightmareaway,andletuslive,livetogether.Isn’tittoostupid,tobewetwotogether,tobegrowingoldalready,andtotortureourselves,andfailineveryattempttofindhappiness?Oh!thegravewilltakeussoonenough,neverfear.Let’strytolive,andloveoneanother.RememberBennecourt!Listentomydream.Ishouldliketobeabletotakeyouawayto–morrow.WewouldgofarfromthiscursedParis,wewouldfindaquietspotsomewhere,andyouwouldseehowpleasantIwouldmakeyourlife;howniceitwouldbetoforgeteverythingtogether!Ofamorningtherearestrollsinthesunlight,thebreakfastwhichsmellsnice,theidleafternoon,theeveningspentsidebysideunderthelamp!Andnomoreworryingaboutchimeras,nothingbutthedelightofliving!Doesn’titsufficethatIloveyou,thatIadoreyou,thatIamwillingtobeyourservant,yourslave,toexistsolelyforyourpleasures?Doyouhear,Iloveyou,Iloveyou?thereisnothingelse,andthatisenough—Iloveyou!’

Hehadfreedhishands,andmakingagestureofrefusal,hesaid,inagloomyvoice:

‘No,itisnotenough!Iwon’tgoawaywithyou,Iwon’tbehappy,Iwillpaint!’

‘AndIshalldieofit,eh?Andyouwilldieofit,andweshallendbyleavingallourbloodandallourtearsinit!There’snothingbeyondArt,thatisthefiercealmightygodwhostrikesuswithhisthunder,andwhomyouhonour!hemaycrushus,sinceheisthemaster,andyouwillstillblesshisname!’

‘Yes,Ibelongtothatgod,hemaydowhathepleaseswithme.IshoulddieifInolongerpainted,andIprefertopaintanddieofit.Besides,mywillisnothinginthematter.Nothingexistsbeyondart;lettheworldburst!’

Shedrewherselfupinafreshspurtofanger.Hervoicebecameharshandpassionateagain.

‘ButI—Iamalive,andthewomenyoulovearelifeless!Oh!don’tsayno!Iknowverywellthatallthosepaintedwomenofyoursaretheonlyonesyoucareabout!BeforeIwasyoursIhadalreadyperceivedit.Then,forashorttimeyouappearedtoloveme.Itwasatthatperiodyoutoldmeallthatnonsenseaboutyourfondnessforyourcreations.Youheldsuchshadowsinpitywhenyouwerewithme;butitdidn’tlast.Youreturnedtothem,oh!likeamaniacreturnstohismania.I,thoughliving,nolongerexistedforyou;itwasthey,thevisions,whoagainbecametheonlyrealitiesofyourlife.WhatIthenenduredyouneverknew,foryouarewonderfullyignorantofwomen.Ihavelivedbyyoursidewithoutyoureverunderstandingme.Yes,Iwasjealousofthosepaintedcreatures.WhenIposedtoyou,onlyoneidealentmethecouragethatIneeded.Iwantedtofightthem,Ihopedtowinyouback;butyougrantedmenothing,notevenakissonmyshoulder!Oh,God!howashamedIsometimesfelt!WhatgriefIhadtoforcebackatfindingmyselfthusdisdainedandthusbetrayed!’

Shecontinuedboldly,shespokeoutfreely—she,sostrangelycompoundedofpassionandmodesty.Andshewasnotmistakeninherjealousywhensheaccusedhisartofbeingresponsibleforhisneglectofherself.Atthebottomofitall,therewasthetheorywhichhehadrepeatedahundredtimesinherpresence:geniusshouldbechaste,anartist’sonlyspouseshouldbehiswork.

‘Yourepulseme,’sheconcludedviolently;‘youdrawbackfrommeasifIdispleasedyou!Andyoulovewhat?Anothing,ameresemblance,alittledust,somecolourspreaduponacanvas!But,oncemore,lookather,lookatyourwomanupyonder!Seewhatamonsteryouhavemadeofherinyourmadness!Arethereanywomenlikethat?Haveanywomengoldenlimbs,andflowersontheirbodies?Wakeup,openyoureyes,returntolifeagain!’

Claude,obeyingtheimperiousgesturewithwhichshepointedtothepicture,hadnowrisenandwaslooking.Thecandle,whichhadremainedupontheplatformofthesteps,illuminedthenudewomanlikeataperinfrontofanaltar,whilstthewholeroomaroundremainedplungedindarkness.Hewasatlengthawakeningfromhisdream,andthewomanthusseenfrombelow,atadistanceofafewpaces,filledhimwithstupefaction.Whohadjustpaintedthatidolofsomeunknownreligion?Whohadwroughtherofmetals,marbles,andgems?Wasithewhohadunconsciouslycreatedthatsymbolofinsatiablepassion,thatunhumanpresentmentofflesh,whichhadbecometransformedintogoldanddiamondsunderhisfingers,inhisvainefforttomakeitlive?Hegaspedandfelt

afraidofhiswork,tremblingatthethoughtofthatsuddenplungeintotheinfinite,andunderstandingatlastthatithadbecomeimpossibleforhimeventodepictReality,despitehislongefforttoconquerandremouldit,makingityetmorerealwithhishumanhands.

‘Yousee!yousee!’Christinerepeated,victoriously.Andhe,inaverylowvoice,stammered:

‘Oh!whathaveIdone?Isitimpossibletocreate,then?Haven’tourhandsthepowertocreatebeings?’

Shefeltthathewasgivingway,andshecaughthiminherarms:

‘Butwhyallthisfolly?—whythinkofanyonebutme—Iwholoveyou?Youtookmeforyourmodel,butwhatwastheuse,say?Arethosepaintingsofyoursworthme?Theyarefrightful,theyareasstiff,ascoldascorpses.ButIamalive,andIloveyou!’

Sheseemedtobeatthatmomenttheveryincarnationofpassionatelove.Heturnedandlookedather,andlittlebylittlehereturnedherembrace;shewassofteninghimandconqueringhim.

‘Listen!’shecontinued.‘Iknowthatyouhadafrightfulthought;yes,Ineverdaredtospeaktoyouaboutit,becauseonemustneverbringonmisfortune;butInolongersleepofanight,youfrightenme.ThiseveningIfollowedyoutothatbridgewhichIhate,andItrembled,oh!Ithoughtthatitwasallover—thatIhadlostyou.Oh,God!whatwouldbecomeofme?Ineedyou—yousurelydonotwishtokillme!Letusliveandloveoneanother—yes,loveoneanother!’

Then,intheemotioncausedhimbyherinfinitepassionandgrief,heyielded.Hepressedhertohim,sobbingandstammering:

‘ItistrueIhadthatfrightfulthought—Ishouldhavedoneit,andIonlyresistedonthinkingofthatunfinishedpicture.ButcanIstillliveifworkwillhavenothingmoretodowithme?HowcanIliveafterthat,afterwhat’sthere,whatIspoiltjustnow?’

‘Iwillloveyou,andyouwilllive.’

‘Ah!youwillneverlovemeenough—Iknowmyself.Somethingwhichdoesnotexistwouldbenecessary—somethingwhichwouldmakemeforgeteverything.Youwerealreadyunabletochangeme.Youcannotaccomplishamiracle!’

Then,assheprotestedandkissedhimpassionately,hewenton:‘Well,yes,saveme!Yes,saveme,ifyoudon’twantmetokillmyself!Lullme,annihilateme,sothatImaybecomeyourthing,slaveenough,smallenoughtodwellunderyourfeet,inyourslippers.Ah!toliveonlyonyourperfume,toobeyyoulikeadog,toeatandsleep—ifIcould,ifIonlycould!’

Sheraisedacryofvictory:‘Atlastyouaremine!ThereisonlyIleft,theotherisquitedead!’

Andshedraggedhimfromtheexecratedpainting,shecarriedhimofftriumphantly.Thecandle,nownearlyconsumed,flaredupforaminutebehindthemonthesteps,beforethebigpainting,andthenwentout.Itwasvictory,yes,butcoulditlast?

Daylightwasabouttobreak,andChristinelayasleepbesideClaude.Shewasbreathing

softly,andasmileplayeduponherlips.Hehadclosedhiseyes;andyet,despitehimself,heopenedthemafreshandgazedintothedarkness.Sleepfledfromhim,andconfusedideasagainascendedtohisbrain.Asthedawnappeared,yellowishlydirty,likeasplashofliquidmudonthewindow–panes,hestarted,fancyingthatheheardaloudvoicecallingtohimfromthefarendofthestudio.Then,irresistibly,despiteafewbriefhours’forgetfulness,allhisoldthoughtsreturned,overflowingandtorturinghim,hollowinghischeeksandcontractinghisjawsinthedisgusthefeltformankind.Twowrinklesimpartedintensebitternesstotheexpressionofhisface,whichlookedlikethewastedcountenanceofanoldman.Andsuddenlytheloudvoicefromthefarendofthestudioimperiouslysummonedhimasecondtime.Thenhequitemadeuphismind:itwasallover,hesufferedtoomuch,hecouldnolongerlive,sinceeverythingwasalie,sincetherewasnothingleftuponearth.Love!whatwasit?Noughtbutapassingillusion.Thisthoughtatlastmasteredhim,possessedhimentirely;andsoonthecravingfornothingnessashisonlyrefugecameonhimstrongerthanever.AtfirstheletChristine’sheadslipdownfromhisshoulderonwhichitrested.Andthen,asathirdsummonsrangoutinhismind,heroseandwenttothestudio,saying:

‘Yes,yes,I’mcoming,’

Theskydidnotclear,itstillremaineddirtyandmournful—itwasoneofthoselugubriouswinterdawns;andanhourlaterChristineherselfawokewithagreatchillyshiver.Shedidnotunderstandatfirst.Howdidithappenthatshewasalone?Thensheremembered:shehadfallenasleepwithhercheekagainsthis.Howwasitthenthathehadlefther?Wherecouldhebe?Suddenly,amidhertorpor,shesprangoutofbedandranintothestudio.GoodGod!hadhereturnedtotheotherthen?Hadtheotherseizedholdofhimagain,whensheherselffanciedthatshehadconqueredhimforever?

Shesawnothingatthefirstglanceshetook;inthecoldandmurkymorningtwilightthestudioseemedtohertobedeserted.Butwhilstshewastranquillisingherselfatseeingnobodythere,sheraisedhereyestothecanvas,andaterriblecryleaptfromhergapingmouth:

‘Claude!oh,Claude!’

Claudehadhangedhimselffromthestepsinfrontofhisspoiltwork.Hehadsimplytakenoneofthecordswhichheldtheframetothewall,andhadmountedtheplatform,soastofastentheropetoanoakencrosspiece,whichhehimselfhadonedaynailedtotheuprightstoconsolidatethem.Thenfromupabovehehadleaptintospace.Hewashangingthereinhisshirt,withhisfeetbare,lookinghorrible,withhisblacktongueprotruding,andhisbloodshoteyesstartingfromtheirorbits;heseemedtohavegrownfrightfullytallinhismotionlessstiffness,andhisfacewasturnedtowardsthepicture,closetothenudewoman,asifhehadwishedtoinfusehissoulintoherwithhislastgasp,andasifhewerestilllookingatherwithhisexpressionlesseyes.

Christine,however,remainederect,quiteoverwhelmedwiththegrief,fright,andangerwhichdilatedherbody.Onlyacontinuoushowlcamefromherthroat.Sheopenedherarms,stretchedthemtowardsthepicture,andclenchedbothhands.

‘Oh,Claude!oh,Claude!’shegaspedatlast,‘shehastakenyouback—thehussyhaskilledyou,killedyou,killedyou!’

Thenherlegsgaveway.Shespanroundandfellallofaheapuponthetiledflooring.Herexcessivesufferinghadtakenallthebloodfromherheart,and,faintingaway,shelaythere,asifsheweredead,likeawhiterag,miserable,donefor,crushedbeneaththefiercesovereigntyofArt.Aboveherthenudewomanroseradiantinhersymbolicidol’sbrightness;paintingtriumphed,aloneimmortalanderect,evenwhenmad.

Atnineo’clockontheMondaymorning,whenSandoz,aftertheformalitiesanddelayoccasionedbythesuicide,arrivedintheRueTourlaqueforthefuneral,hefoundonlyascoreofpeopleonthefootway.Despitehisgreatgrief,hehadbeenrunningaboutforthreedays,compelledtoattendtoeverything.Atfirst,asChristinehadbeenpickeduphalfdead,hehadbeenobligedtohavehercarriedtotheHopitaldeLariboisiere;thenhehadgonefromthemunicipaloffices,totheundertaker’sandthechurch,payingeverywhere,andfullofindifferencesofarasthatwent,sincethepriestswerewillingtoprayoverthatcorpsewithablackcirclerounditsneck.Amongthepeoplewhowerewaitingheasyetonlyperceivedsomeneighbours,togetherwithafewinquisitivefolk;whileotherpeoplepeeredoutofthehousewindowsandwhisperedtogether,excitedbythetragedy.Claude’sfriendswould,nodoubt,sooncome.He,Sandoz,hadnotbeenabletowritetoanymembersofthefamily,ashedidnotknowtheiraddresses.However,heretreatedintothebackgroundonthearrivaloftworelatives,whomthreelinesinthenewspapershadrousedfromtheforgetfulnessinwhichClaudehimself,nodoubt,hadleftthem.Therewasanoldfemalecousin,[13]withtheequivocalairofadealerinsecond–handgoods,andamalecousin,oftheseconddegree,awealthyman,decoratedwiththeLegionofHonour,andowningoneofthelargeParisdraperyshops.Heshowedhimselfgood–naturedlycondescendinginhiselegance,anddesirousofdisplayinganenlightenedtasteforart.Thefemalecousinatoncewentupstairs,turnedroundthestudio,sniffedatallthebarewretchedness,andthenwalkeddownagain,withahardmouth,asifshewereirritatedathavingtakenthetroubletocome.Thesecondcousin,onthecontrary,drewhimselfupandwalkedfirstbehindthehearse,fillingthepartofchiefmournerwithproudandpleasantfitness.

Astheprocessionwasstartingoff,Bongrandcameup,and,aftershakinghandswithSandoz,remainedbesidehim.Hewasgloomy,and,glancingatthefifteenortwentystrangerswhofollowed,hemurmured:

‘Ah!poorchap!What!arethereonlywetwo?’

DubuchewasatCanneswithhischildren.JoryandFagerolleskeptaway,theformerhatingthedeceasedandthelatterbeingtoobusy.MahoudeaualonecaughtthepartyupattheriseoftheRueLepic,andheexplainedthatGagnieremusthavemissedthetrain.

ThehearseslowlyascendedthesteepthoroughfarewhichwindsroundtheflanksoftheheightofMontmartre;andnowandthencrossstreets,slopingdownward,suddengapsamidthehouses,showedonetheimmensityofParisasdeepandasbroadasasea.WhenthepartyarrivedinfrontoftheChurchofSt.Pierre,andthecoffinwascarriedupthesteps,itovertoppedthegreatcityforamoment.Therewasagreywintryskyoverhead,largemassesofcloudssweptalong,carriedawaybyanicywind,andinthemistParisseemedtoexpand,tobecomeendless,fillingthehorizonwiththreateningbillows.Thepoorfellowwhohadwishedtoconquerit,andhadbrokenhisneckinhisfruitlessefforts,nowpassedinfrontofit,nailedunderanoakenboard,returningtotheearthlikeoneof

thecity’smuddywaves.

Onleavingthechurchthefemalecousindisappeared,Mahoudeaulikewise;whilethesecondcousinagaintookhispositionbehindthehearse.Sevenotherunknownpersonsdecidedtofollow,andtheystartedforthenewcemeteryofSt.Ouen,towhichthepopulacehasgiventhedisquietingandlugubriousnameofCayenne.Thereweretenmournersinall.

‘Well,wetwoshallbetheonlyoldfriends,’repeatedBongrandashewalkedonbesideSandoz.

Theprocession,precededbythemourningcoachinwhichthepriestandthechoirboywereseated,nowdescendedtheothersideoftheheight,alongwindingstreetsasprecipitousasmountainpaths.Thehorsesofthehearseslippedovertheslimypavement;onecouldhearthewheelsjoltingnoisily.Rightbehind,thetenmournerstookshortandcarefulsteps,tryingtoavoidthepuddles,andbeingsooccupiedwiththedifficultyofthedescentthattheyrefrainedfromspeaking.ButatthebottomoftheRueduRuisseau,whentheyreachedthePortedeClignancourtandthevastopenspaces,wheretheboulevardrunningroundthecity,thecircularrailway,thetalusandmoatofthefortificationsaredisplayedtoview,therecamesighsofrelief,afewwordswereexchanged,andthepartybegantostraggle.

SandozandBongrandbydegreesfoundthemselvesbehindalltheothers,asiftheyhadwishedtoisolatethemselvesfromthosefolkwhomtheyhadneverpreviouslyseen.Justasthehearsewaspassingthecitygate,thepainterleanttowardsthenovelist.

‘Andthelittlewoman,whatisgoingtobedonewithher?’

‘Ah!howdreadfulitis!’repliedSandoz.‘Iwenttoseeheryesterdayatthehospital.Shehasbrainfever.Thehousedoctormaintainsthattheywillsaveher,butthatshewillcomeoutofittenyearsolderandwithoutanystrength.Doyouknowthatshehadcometosuchapointthatshenolongerknewhowtospell.Suchacrushingfall,ayoungladyabasedtothelevelofadrudge!Yes,ifwedon’ttakecareofherlikeacripple,shewillendbybecomingascullery–maidsomewhere.’

‘Andnotacopper,ofcourse?’

‘Notacopper.IthoughtIshouldfindthestudiesClaudemadefromnatureforhislargepicture,thosesuperbstudieswhichheafterwardsturnedtosuchpooraccount.ButIferretedeverywhere;hegaveeverythingaway;peoplerobbedhim.No,nothingtosell,notacanvasthatcouldbeturnedtoprofit,nothingbutthathugepicture,whichIdemolishedandburntwithmyownhands,andrightgladly,Iassureyou,evenasoneavengesoneself.’

Theybecamesilentforamoment.ThebroadroadleadingtoSt.Ouenstretchedoutquitestraightasfarastheeyecouldreach;andovertheplainwenttheprocession,pitifullysmall,lost,asitwere,onthathighway,alongwhichthereflowedariverofmud.Alineofpalingsbordereditoneitherside,wastelandextendedbothtorightandleft,whileafaroffoneonlysawsomefactorychimneysandafewloftywhitehouses,standingalone,obliquelytotheroad.TheypassedthroughtheClignancourtfete,withbooths,circuses,androundaboutsoneitherside,allshiveringintheabandonmentofwinter,emptydancing

cribs,mouldyswings,andakindofstagehomestead,‘ThePicardyFarm,’lookingdismallysadbetweenitsbrokenfences.

‘Ah!hisoldcanvases,’resumedBongrand,‘thethingshehadattheQuaideBourbon,doyourememberthem?Thereweresomeextraordinarybitsamongthem.ThelandscapeshebroughtbackfromthesouthandtheacademystudieshepaintedatBoutin’s—agirl’slegsandawoman’strunk,forinstance.Oh,thattrunk!OldMalgrasmusthaveit.Amagisterialstudyitwas,whichnotoneofour“youngmasters”couldpaint.Yes,yes,thefellowwasnofool—simplyagreatpainter.’

‘WhenIthink,’saidSandoz,‘thatthoselittlehumbugsoftheSchoolandthepressaccusedhimofidlenessandignorance,repeatingoneaftertheotherthathehadalwaysrefusedtolearnhisart.Idle!goodheavens!why,Ihaveseenhimfaintwithfatigueaftersittingstenhourslong;hegavehiswholelifetohiswork,andkilledhimselfinhispassionfortoil!Andtheycallhimignorant—howidiotic!Theywillneverunderstandthattheindividualgiftwhichamanbringsinhisnatureissuperiortoallacquiredknowledge.Delacroixalsowasignorantofhisprofessionintheireyes,simplybecausehecouldnotconfinehimselftohardandfastrules!Ah!theninnies,theslavishpupilswhoareincapableofpaintinganythingincorrectly!’

Hetookafewstepsinsilence,andthenheadded:

‘Aheroicworker,too—apassionateobserverwhosebrainwascrammedwithscience—thetemperamentofagreatartistendowedwithadmirablegifts.Andtothinkthatheleavesnothing,nothing!’

‘Absolutelynothing,notacanvas,’declaredBongrand.‘Iknownothingofhisbutroughdrafts,sketches,notescarelesslyjotteddown,asitwere,allthatartisticparaphernaliawhichcan’tbesubmittedtothepublic.Yes,indeed,itisreallyadeadman,deadcompletely,whoisabouttobeloweredintothegrave.’

However,thepainterandthenovelistnowhadtohastentheirsteps,fortheyhadgotfarbehindtheotherswhiletalking;andthehearse,afterrollingpasttavernsandshopsfulloftombstonesandcrosses,wasturningtotherightintotheshortavenueleadingtothecemetery.Theyovertookit,andpassedthroughthegatewaywiththelittleprocession.Thepriestinhissurpliceandthechoirboycarryingtheholywaterreceiver,whohadbothalightedfromthemourningcoach,walkedonahead.

Itwasalargeflatcemetery,stillinitsyouth,laidoutbyruleandlineinthesuburbanwasteland,anddividedintosquaresbybroadsymmetricalpaths.Afewraisedtombsborderedtheprincipalavenues,butmostofthegraves,alreadyverynumerous,wereonalevelwiththesoil.Theywerehastilyarrangedtemporarysepulchres,forfive–yeargrantsweretheonlyonestobeobtained,andfamilieshesitatedtogotoanyseriousexpense.Thus,thestonessinkingintothegroundforlackoffoundations,thescrubbyevergreenswhichhadnotyethadtimetogrow,alltheprovisionalslopkindofmourningthatonesawthere,impartedtothatvastfieldofreposealookofpovertyandcold,clean,dismalbarenesslikethatofabarracksorahospital.Therewasnotacornertobefoundrecallingthegraveyardnookssungofintheballadsoftheromanticperiod,notoneleafyturnquiveringwithmystery,notasinglelargetombspeakingofprideandeternity.YouwereinthenewstyleofPariscemetery,whereeverythingissetoutstraightanddulynumbered

—thecemeteryofdemocratictimes,wherethedeadseemtoslumberatthebottomofanofficedrawer,afterfilingpastonebyone,aspeopledoatafeteundertheeyesofthepolice,soastoavoidobstruction.

‘Dashit!’mutteredBongrand,‘itisn’tlivelyhere.’

‘Whynot?’askedSandoz.‘It’scommodious;thereisplentyofair.Andevenalthoughthereisnosun,seewhataprettycolouritallhas.’

Infact,underthegreyskyofthatNovembermorning,inthepenetratingquiverofthewind,thelowtombs,ladenwithgarlandsandcrownsofbeads,assumedsofttintsofcharmingdelicacy.Thereweresomequitewhite,andothersallblack,accordingtothecolourofthebeads.Butthecontrastlostmuchofitsforceamidthepalegreenfoliageofthedwarfishtrees.Poorfamiliesexhaustedtheiraffectionforthedeardepartedindeckingthosefive–yeargrants;therewerepilesofcrownsandbloomingflowers—freshlybroughtthereontherecentDayoftheDead.Onlythecutflowershadasyetfaded,betweentheirpapercollars.Somecrownsofyellowimmortellesshoneoutlikefreshlychiselledgold.Butthebeadspredominatedtosuchadegreethatatthefirstglancethereseemedtobenothingelse;theygushedfortheverywhere,hidingtheinscriptionsandcoveringthestonesandrailings.Therewerebeadsforminghearts,beadsinfestoonsandmedallions,beadsframingeitherornamentaldesignsorobjectsunderglass,suchasvelvetpansies,waxhandsentwined,satinbows,or,attimes,evenphotographsofwomen—yellow,faded,cheapphotographs,showingpoor,ugly,touchingfacesthatsmiledawkwardly.

AsthehearseproceededalongtheAvenueduRondPoint,Sandoz,whoselastremark—sinceitwasofanartisticnature—hadbroughthimbacktoClaude,resumedtheconversation,saying:

‘Thisisacemeterywhichhewouldhaveunderstood,hewhowassomadonmodernthings.Nodoubthesufferedphysically,wastedawaybytheover–severelesionthatissooftenakintogenius,“threegrainstoolittle,orthreegrainstoomuch,ofsomesubstanceinthebrain,”ashehimselfsaidwhenhereproachedhisparentsforhisconstitution.However,hisdisorderwasnotmerelyapersonalaffair,hewasthevictimofourperiod.Yes,ourgenerationhasbeensoakedinromanticism,andwehaveremainedimpregnatedwithit.Itisinvainthatwewashourselvesandtakebathsofreality,thestainisobstinate,andallthescrubbingintheworldwon’ttakeitaway.’

Bongrandsmiled.‘Oh!asforromanticism,’saidhe,‘I’muptomyearsinit.Ithasfedmyart,and,indeed,I’mimpenitent.Ifitbetruethatmyfinalimpotenceisduetothat,well,afterall,whatdoesitmatter?Ican’tdenythereligionofmyartisticlife.However,yourremarkisquitecorrect;youotherfellows,youarerebellioussons.Claude,forinstance,withhisbignudewomanamidthequays,thatextravagantsymbol—’

‘Ah,thatwoman!’interruptedSandoz,‘itwasshewhothrottledhim!Ifyouknewhowheworshippedher!Iwasneverabletocastheroutofhim.Andhowcanonepossiblyhaveclearperception,asolid,properly–balancedbrainwhensuchphantasmagoriasproutsforthfromyourskull?Thoughcomingafteryours,ourgenerationistooimaginativetoleavehealthyworkbehindit.Anothergeneration,perhapstwo,willberequiredbeforepeoplewillbeabletopaintandwritelogically,withthehigh,puresimplicityoftruth.Truth,naturealone,istherightbasis,thenecessaryguide,outsideofwhichmadnessbegins;and

thetoilerneedn’tbeafraidofflatteninghiswork,histemperamentisthere,whichwillalwayscarryhimsufficientlyaway.Doesanyonedreamofdenyingpersonality,theinvoluntarythumb–strokewhichdeformswhateverwetouchandconstitutesourpoorcreativeness?’

However,heturnedhishead,andinvoluntarilyadded:

‘Hallo!what’sburning?Aretheylightingbonfireshere?’

TheprocessionhadturnedonreachingtheRondPoint,wheretheossuarywassituated—thecommonvaultgraduallyfilledwithalltheremnantsremovedfromthegraves,andthestoneslabofwhich,inthecentreofacircularlawn,disappearedunderaheapofwreaths,depositedtherebythepiousrelativesofthosewhonolongerhadanindividualresting–place.And,asthehearserolledslowlytotheleftintransversalAvenueNo.2,therehadcomeasoundofcrackling,andthicksmokehadrisenabovethelittleplanetreesborderingthepath.Somedistanceahead,asthepartyapproached,theycouldseealargepileofearthythingsbeginningtoburn,andtheyendedbyunderstanding.Thefirewaslightedattheedgeofalargesquarepatchofground,whichhadbeendugupinbroadparallelfurrows,soastoremovethecoffinsbeforeallottingthesoiltoothercorpses;justasthepeasantturnsthestubbleoverbeforesowingafresh.Thelongemptyfurrowsseemedtoyawn,themoundsofrichsoilseemedtobepurifyingunderthebroadgreysky;andthefirethusburninginthatcornerwasformedoftherottenwoodofthecoffinsthathadbeenremoved—slit,brokenboards,eatenintobytheearth,oftenreducedtoaruddyhumus,andgatheredtogetherinanenormouspile.Theybrokeupwithfaintdetonations,andbeingdampwithhumanmud,theyrefusedtoflame,andmerelysmokedwithgrowingintensity.Largecolumnsofthesmokeroseintothepalesky,andwerebeatendownbytheNovemberwind,andtornintoruddyshreds,whichflewacrossthelowtombsofquiteonehalfofthecemetery.

SandozandBongrandhadlookedatthescenewithoutsayingaword.Then,havingpassedthefire,theformerresumed:

‘No,hedidnotprovetobethemanoftheformulahelaiddown.Imeanthathisgeniuswasnotclearenoughtoenablehimtosetthatformulaerectandimposeitupontheworldbyadefinitemasterpiece.Andnowseehowotherfellowsscattertheireffortsaroundhim,afterhim!Theygonofartherthanroughingoff,theygiveusmerehastyimpressions,andnotoneofthemseemstohavestrengthenoughtobecomethemasterwhoisawaited.Isn’titirritating,thisnewnotionoflight,thispassionfortruthcarriedasfarasscientificanalysis,thisevolutionbegunwithsomuchoriginality,andnowloiteringontheway,asitwere,fallingintothehandsoftricksters,andnevercomingtoahead,simplybecausethenecessarymanisn’tborn?Butpooh!themanwillbeborn;nothingiseverlost,lightmustbe.’

‘Whoknows?notalways,’saidBongrand.‘Lifemiscarries,likeeverythingelse.Ilistentoyou,youknow,butI’madespairer.Iamdyingofsadness,andIfeelthateverythingelseisdying.Ah!yes,thereissomethingunhealthyintheatmosphereofthetimes—thisendofacenturyisalldemolition,alitterofbrokenmonuments,andsoilthathasbeenturnedoverandoverahundredtimes,thewholeexhalingastenchofdeath!Cananybodyremainingoodhealthamidallthat?One’snervesbecomeunhinged,thegreatneurosisisthere,

artgrowsunsettled,thereisgeneralbustling,perfectanarchy,allthemadnessofself–loveatbay.Neverhavepeoplequarrelledmoreandseenlessclearlythansinceitispretendedthatoneknowseverything.’

Sandoz,whohadgrownpale,watchedthelargeruddycoilsofsmokerollinginthewind.

‘Itwasfated,’hemusedinanundertone.‘Ourexcessiveactivityandprideofknowledgewereboundtocastusbackintodoubt.Thiscentury,whichhasalreadythrownsomuchlightovertheworld,wasboundtofinishamidthethreatofafreshflowofdarkness—yes,ourdiscomfortcomesfromthat!Toomuchhasbeenpromised,toomuchhasbeenhopedfor;peoplehavelookedforwardtotheconquestandexplanationofeverything,andnowtheygrowlimpatiently.What!don’tthingsgoquickerthanthat?What!hasn’tsciencemanagedtobringusabsolutecertainty,perfecthappiness,inahundredyears?Thenwhatistheuseofgoingon,sinceonewillneverknoweverything,andone’sbreadwillalwaysbeasbitter?Itisasifthecenturyhadbecomebankrupt,asifithadfailed;pessimismtwistspeople’sbowels,mysticismfogstheirbrains;forwehavevainlysweptphantomsawaywiththelightofanalysis,thesupernaturalhasresumedhostilities,thespiritofthelegendsrebelsandwantstoconquerus,whilewearehaltingwithfatigueandanguish.Ah!Icertainlydon’taffirmanything;Imyselfamtortured.Onlyitseemstomethatthislastconvulsionoftheoldreligiousterrorswastobeforeseen.Wearenottheend,wearebutatransition,abeginningofsomethingelse.Itcalmsmeanddoesmegoodtobelievethatwearemarchingtowardsreason,andthesubstantialityofscience.’

Hisvoicehadbecomehuskywithemotion,andheadded:

‘Thatis,unlessmadnessplungesus,topsy–turvy,intonightagain,andweallgooffthrottledbytheideal,likeouroldfriendwhosleepstherebetweenhisfourboards.’

ThehearsewasleavingtransversalAvenueNo.2toturn,ontheright,intolateralAvenueNo.3,andthepainter,withoutspeaking,calledthenovelist’sattentiontoasquareplotofgraves,besidewhichtheprocessionwasnowpassing.

Therewashereachildren’scemetery,nothingbutchildren’stombs,stretchingfarawayinorderlyfashion,separatedatregularintervalsbynarrowpaths,andlookinglikesomeinfantilecityofdeath.Thereweretinylittlewhitecrosses,tinylittlewhiterailings,disappearingalmostbeneathanefflorescenceofwhiteandbluewreaths,onalevelwiththesoil;andthatpeacefulfieldofrepose,sosoftincolour,withthebluishtintofmilkaboutit,seemedtohavebeenmadeflowerybyallthechildhoodlyingintheearth.Thecrossesrecordedvariousages,twoyears,sixteenmonths,fivemonths.Onepoorlittlecross,destituteofanyrailing,wasoutofline,havingbeensetupslantinglyacrossapath,anditsimplyborethewords:‘Eugenie,threedays.’Scarcelytoexistasyet,andwithaltosleeptherealready,alone,ononeside,likethechildrenwhoonfestiveoccasionsdineatalittlesidetable!

However,thehearsehadatlaststopped,inthemiddleoftheavenue;andwhenSandozsawthegravereadyatthecornerofthenextdivision,infrontofthecemeteryofthelittleones,hemurmuredtenderly:

‘Ah!mypooroldClaude,withyourbigchild’sheart,youwillbeinyourplacebesidethem.’

Theunder–bearersremovedthecoffinfromthehearse.Thepriest,wholookedsurly,stoodwaitinginthewind;somesextonsweretherewiththeirshovels.Threeneighbourshadfallenoffontheroad,thetenhaddwindledintoseven.Thesecondcousin,whohadbeenholdinghishatinhishandsinceleavingthechurch,despitethefrightfulweather,nowdrewnearer.Alltheothersuncovered,andtheprayerswereabouttobegin,whenaloudpiercingwhistlemadeeverybodylookup.

Beyondthiscornerofthecemeteryasyetuntenanted,attheendoflateralAvenueNo.3,atrainwaspassingalongthehighembankmentofthecircularrailwaywhichoverlookedthegraveyard.Thegrassysloperoseup,andanumberofgeometricallines,asitwere,stoodoutblacklyagainstthegreysky;thereweretelegraph–posts,connectedbythinwires,asuperintendent’sbox,andaredsignalplate,theonlybrightthrobbingspeckvisible.Whenthetrainrolledpast,withitsthunder–crash,oneplainlydistinguished,asonthetransparencyofashadowplay,thesilhouettesofthecarriages,eventheheadsofthepassengersshowinginthelightgapsleftbythewindows.Andthelinebecameclearagain,showinglikeasimpleinkstrokeacrossthehorizon;whilefarawayotherwhistlescalledandwailedunceasingly,shrillwithanger,hoarsewithsuffering,orhuskywithdistress.Thenaguard’shornresoundedlugubriously.

’Revertiturinterramsuamundeerat,’recitedthepriest,whohadopenedabookandwasmakinghaste.

Buthewasnotheard,foralargeenginehadcomeuppuffing,andwasmanoeuvringbackwardsandforwardsnearthefuneralparty.Ithadaloudthickvoice,agutturalwhistle,whichwasintenselymournful.Itcameandwent,panting;andseeninprofileitlookedlikeaheavymonster.Suddenly,moreover,itletoffsteam,withallthefuriousblowingofatempest.

’Requiescatinpace,’saidthepriest.

‘Amen,’repliedthechoirboy.

Butthewordswereagainlostamidthelashing,deafeningdetonation,whichwasprolongedwiththecontinuousviolenceofafusillade.

Bongrand,quiteexasperated,turnedtowardstheengine.Itbecamesilent,fortunately,andeveryonefeltrelieved.TearshadrisentotheeyesofSandoz,whohadalreadybeenstirredbythewordswhichhadinvoluntarilypassedhislips,whilehewalkedbehindhisoldcomrade,talkingasiftheyhadbeenhavingoneoftheirfamiliarchatsofyore;andnowitseemedtohimasifhisyouthwereabouttobeconsignedtotheearth.Itwaspartofhimself,thebestpart,hisillusionsandhisenthusiasm,whichthesextonsweretakingawaytolowerintothedepths.Atthatterriblemomentanaccidentoccurredwhichincreasedhisgrief.Ithadrainedsohardduringtheprecedingdays,andthegroundwassosoft,thatasuddensubsidenceofsoiltookplace.Oneofthesextonshadtojumpintothegraveandemptyitwithhisshovelwithaslowrhythmicalmovement.Therewasnoendtothematter,thefuneralseemedlikelytolastforeveramidtheimpatienceofthepriestandtheinterestofthefourneighbourswhohadfollowedontotheend,thoughnobodycouldsaywhy.Andupabove,ontheembankment,theenginehadbegunmanoeuvringagain,retreatingandhowlingateachturnofitswheels,itsfire–boxopenthewhile,andlightingupthegloomyscenewitharainofsparks.

Atlastthepitwasemptied,thecoffinlowered,andtheaspergilluspassedround.Itwasallover.Thesecondcousin,standingerect,didthehonourswithhiscorrect,pleasantair,shakinghandswithallthesepeoplewhomhehadneverpreviouslyseen,inmemoryoftherelativewhosenamehehadnotrememberedthedaybefore.

‘Thatlinen–draperisaverydecentfellow,’saidBongrand,whowasswallowinghistears.

‘Quiteso,’repliedSandoz,sobbing.

Alltheothersweregoingoff,thesurplicesofthepriestandthechoirboydisappearedbetweenthegreentrees,whilethestragglingneighboursloiteredreadingtheinscriptionsonthesurroundingtombs.

ThenSandoz,makinguphismindtoleavethegrave,whichwasnowhalffilled,resumed:

‘Wealoneshallhaveknownhim.Thereisnothingleftofhim,notevenaname!’

‘Heisveryhappy,’saidBongrand;‘hehasnopictureonhand,intheearthwherehesleeps.Itisaswelltogooffastotoilaswedomerelytoturnoutinfirmchildren,whoalwayslacksomething,theirlegsortheirhead,andwhodon’tlive.’

‘Yes,onemustreallybewantinginpridetoresignoneselftoturningoutmerelyapproximateworkandresortingtotrickerywithlife.I,whobestoweverycareonmybooks—Idespisemyself,forIfeelthat,despiteallmyefforts,theyareincompleteanduntruthful.’

Withpalefaces,theyslowlywentaway,sidebyside,pastthechildren’swhitetombs,thenovelisttheninallthestrengthofhistoilandfame,thepainterdecliningbutcoveredwithglory.

‘There,atleast,liesonewhowaslogicalandbrave,’continuedSandoz;‘heconfessedhispowerlessnessandkilledhimself.’

‘That’strue,’saidBongrand;‘ifwedidn’tcaresomuchforourskinsweshouldalldoashehasdone,eh?’

‘Well,yes;sincewecannotcreateanything,sincewearebutfeeblecopyists,wemightaswellputanendtoourselvesatonce.’

Againtheyfoundthemselvesbeforetheburningpileofoldrottencoffins,nowfullyalight,sweatingandcrackling;buttherewerestillnoflamestobeseen,thesmokealonehadincreased—athickacridsmoke,whichthewindcarriedalonginwhirlingcoils,sothatitnowcoveredthewholecemeteryaswithacloudofmourning.

‘Dashit!Eleveno’clock!’saidBongrand,afterpullingouthiswatch.‘Imustgethomeagain.’

Sandozgaveanexclamationofsurprise:

‘What,alreadyeleven?’

Overthelow–lyinggraves,overthevastbead–floweredfieldofdeath,soformalofaspectandsocold,hecastalonglookofdespair,hiseyesstillbedimmedbyhistears.Andthenheadded:

‘Let’sgotowork.’

THEEND

[13]MadameSidonie,whofiguresinM.Zola’snovel,‘LaCuree.’Themalecousin,mentionedimmediatelyafterwards,isOctaveMouret,theleadingcharacterof‘Pot–Bouille’and‘AuBonheurdesDames.’—ED.