His Masterpiece

. Constant rain had made the middle of August very dull, but his courage for work returned with the blue sky. His great picture

adame Joseph, the doorkeeper, was bringing up his lunch, and

, and the consciousness of some vague gentle breathing near him, at last made him fidgety. He looked up, and felt amazed; a woman stood there clad in a

e he recog

Well, I certainly

t he had certainly thought of her; then, as the days went by for nearly a couple of months without sign of life from her, she had be

ed to come. I thought it was w

t had ended by seeming quite natural to her. The worst was that, in passing along the quay, she had bought that bunch of roses with the delicate intention of thereby showing her gratitude to the young

ted politeness. He had thrown aside his palette and was

elle. This is really a su

ith his wild sweeping gestures, and she felt so conscious of his shyn

d to show you that

, that she was not making fun of him, he shook both her hands, with almost sufficient

ly are. This is the first time I pay tha

nd, looking straight i

not altogethe

have not,' she r

wait two months befo

d she was about to tell revived

y kind to me, only she is a great invalid, and never leaves the house. But she gre

ot tell, but amidst the profound quietude of her existence, the image of that young man who had befriended her had returned to her once more, becoming more and more precise, till at last it occupied her daily thoughts. Why should she forget him? She had nothing to reproach him with; on the contrary, she felt she was his debtor. The thought of seeing him again, dismissed at first, struggled against later on, at last became an all-absorbing craving. Each eveni

he continued. 'And besides, the weather was

nding before her, also confessed h

e floor and disappear into the walls at the very moment one least expects it; aren't you now? I said to myself, "It's all over: it

-looking paintings which she again beheld, the glaring sketches of the South, the terrible anatomical accuracy of the studies fr

rbing you;

ising. 'It does me good to have a talk with you, for I was working my

picture, the canvas that had been turned to the wall on the

the velveteen jacket, three times begun afresh, had now been left in distress. The painter was more particularly working at the principal figure, the woman lying on the grass. He had not touched the head again. He was battling with the bo

. The idea absolutely revolted her, and she was wounded too by the wildness of the painting, so brutal indeed that she considered herself abominably insulted. She did not und

, both grieved and surprised b

g alr

e waiting for

e door before he could take he

ll I see

emain in his. For a momen

know. I a

nt off, hastily, saying: 'One of

ng, seeking vainly for the phrase, the gesture that could have offended her. And he in his turn became angry, and launched an oath into space, with a terrific shrug of the shoulders, as if to rid himself of this silly wor

Zoe Piedefer. Then, as the days went by, he was seized with a furious fit of work, becoming unapproachable to every one, indulging in such violent theories that even his friends did not venture to contradict him. He swept the world from his path with one gesture; there was no longer to be anything but painting left. One might murder one's parents, comrades, and women especially, and it would all be a good riddance. After this terrible fever he fell into abominable despo

rstood. As it happened, he did not understand at all-he had no wish to understand, seeing that she was there. It was quite sufficient that she was not vexed with him, that she would consent to look in now and then like a chum. There were no explanations; they kept their respective torments and the struggles of recent times to themselves. For nearly an hour they chatted together right pleasantly, with nothing hidden nor antagonistic remaining between them; it was as if an understanding had been arrived at, unknown to themselves, and while they were

shall come

two month

. You'll see,

had to be back home by eleven, and she walked the whole way very quickly, coming in all aglow from the run, for it was a long stretch from Passy to the Quai de Bourbon. During four winter months, from October to February, she came in this fashion, now in drenching rain, now among the mists from the Seine, now in the pale sunlight that th

such a degree that in her girlish memory she could not picture him otherwise. She also had that same jaw, and when her mother had not known how to master her, she had often cried: 'Ah, my girl, you'll eat your heart's blood out like your father.' Poor mother! how she, Christine, had worried her with her love of horseplay, with her mad turbulent fits. As far back as she could remember, she pictured her mother ever seated at the same window, quietly painting fans, a slim little woman with very soft eyes, the only thing she had inherited of her. When people wanted to please her mother they told her, 'she has got your eyes.' And then she smiled, happy in the thought of having contributed at least that touch of sweetness to her daughter's features. After the death of her husband, she had worked so late as to endanger her eyesig

they could be seen at the end of the streets; while on the other side of the town, after passing along other streets, there were flat fields stretching far away; but she never went there, the distance was too great. The only height she remembered was the Puy de Dome, rounded off at the summit like a hump. In the town itself she could have found her way to the cathedral blindfold; one had to turn round by the Place de Jaude and take the Rue des Gras; but more than that she could not tell him; the rest of the town was an entanglement, a maze of sloping lanes and boulevards; a town of black lava ever dipping downward, where the rain of the thunderstorms swept by torrentially amidst formidable flashes of lightning. Oh! those storms; she still shuddered to think of them. Just opposite her room, above the roofs, the lightning conductor of the museum was always on fire. In the sitting-room she had her own window-a deep recess as big as a room itself-where her work-table and personal nick-nacks stood. It was there that her mother had taught her to read; it was there that, later on, she had fallen asleep while listening to her masters, so greatly did the fatigue of learning daze her. And now she ma

rough the Venetian blinds. Since madame had become paralysed in the knees and stone blind, so that she no longer left her room, she had had no other recreation than that of listening to the reading of religious books. Ah! those endless readings, how they weighed upon the girl at times! If she had only known a trade, how gladly she would have cut out dresses, concocted bonnets, or goffered the petals of artificial flowers. And to think that she was capable of nothing, when she had been taught everything, and that there was only enough stuff in her to make a salaried drudge, a semi-domestic! She suffered horribly, too, in that stiff, lonely dwelling which smelt of the tomb. She was seized once more with the vertigo of her childhood, as when she had striven to compel herself to

ning, 'you'll be rewarded;

t she is worth three millions of francs. No, no, I have never

ied, 'Well, you'd become rich, that's all. Bu

burst into laughter. 'To one of her old friends, eh? perh

nder passing between them than a cordial shake of the hand at her arrival, and another one when she left, seemed to them quite natural. Still for her part she scented that he was shy, and at times she looked at him fixedly, with the wondering perturbation of unconscious passion. But as yet nothing a

arrived and taken off her gloves, she pinned up her dress to avoid soiling it, and set the big studio in order in the twinkling of an eye. There was no longer a pile of cinders before the stove; the screen hid the bedstead and the washstand; the couch was brushed, the wardrobe polished; the deal table was cleared of the crockery, and had not a stain of paint; and above the chairs, which were symmetrically arranged, and the spanned easels propped against the walls, the big cuckoo clock, with full-blown pink flowers on its dial, seemed to tick more sonorously. Altogether it was magnificent; one would not have recognised the place. He, stupefied, watched her trotting to and fro, twisting about and singing as she went. Was this then the lazybones who had such dreadful headaches at the least bit of work? But she laughed; at headwork, yes; but exertion with her hands and f

longer with the ardour of a housewife, eager to be up and doing. First of all, she hardly knew how to work; she held her needle like a girl brought up in contempt of sewing. Besides, the enforced quiescence and the attention that had to be giv

llowed him at last to see her home. For a long while she had insisted upon going away by herself, feeling ashamed of being seen in the streets on a man's arm. Then, one day when the rain fell all of a sudden, she was obliged to let him come downstairs with an umbrella. The rain having ceased almost immediately, she sent him back when they reached the other side of the Pont Louis-Philippe. They only remained a few moments beside the parapet, looking at the Mail, and happy at being togeth

night of her arrival? They went round the point of the island, strolling more leisurely still to enjoy the solitude and tranquillity which the old historic mansions seem to have implanted there. They watched the water seething between the wooden piles of the Estacade, and returned by way of the Quai de Bethune and the Quai d'Orleans, instinctively drawn closer to each other by the widening of the stream, keeping elbow to elbow at sight of the vast flow, with their eyes fixed on the distant Halle aux Vins and the Jardin des Plantes. In the pale sky, the cupolas of the public buildings assumed a bluish hue. When they reached the Pont St. Louis, Claude had to point out Notre-Dame by name, for Christine did not recognise the edifice from the rear, where it looked like a colossal creature crouching down between its flying buttresses, which suggested sprawling paws, while above its long

alone, that gradually she gave way. She began by allowing Claude to see her as far as the Hotel de Ville; then as far as the Pont-Neuf; at last as far as the Tuileries. She forgot the danger; they walked arm in arm like a young married couple; and that constantly repeated promenade, that leisurely journey over the self-same ground by the river side

rned away from the dazzlement, preferring to gaze at certain spots, one above all-a block of old houses just above the Mail. Below, there was a series of one-storied tenements, little huckster and fishing-tackle shops, with flat terrace roofs, ornamented with laurel and Virginia creeper. And in the rear rose loftier, but decrepit, dwellings, with linen hung out to dry at their windows, a collection of fantastic structures, a confused mass of woodwork and masonry, overtoppling walls, and hanging gardens, in which coloured glass balls shone out like stars. They walked on, leaving behind them the big barracks and the Hotel de Ville, and feeling much more interest in the Cite which appeared across the river, pent between lofty smooth embankments rising from the water. Above the darkened houses rose the towers of Notre-Dame, as resplendent as if they had been newly gilt. Then the second-hand bookstalls began to invade the quays. Down below a lighter full of charcoal struggled against the strong current beneath an arch of the Pont Notre-Dame. And then, on the days when the flower market was held, they stopped, despite the inclement weather, to inhale the scent of the first violets and the early gillyflowers. On their left a long stretch of bank now became visible; beyond the pepper-caster turrets of the Palais de Justice, the small, murky tenements of the Quai de l'Horloge showed as far as the clump of trees midway across the Pont-Neuf;

tute. It is there one sees Paris retiring to rest in all her glory. At each of their walks the aspect of the conflagration changed; fresh furnaces added their glow to the crown of flames. One evening, when a shower had surprised them, the sun, showing behind the downpour, lit up the whole rain cloud, and upon their heads there fell a spray of glowing water, irisated with pink and azure. On the days when the sky was clear, however, the sun, like a fiery ball, descended majestically in an unruffled sapphire lake; for a moment the black cupola of the Institute seemed to cut away part of it and make it look like the waning moon; then the globe assumed a violet tinge and at last became submerged in the lake, which had turned blood-red. Already, in February, the planet described a wider curve, and fell straight into the Seine, which seemed to seethe on the horizon as at the contact of

l, approach them, and perhaps begin to joke, gave him intolerable worry. And that very evening, as she was close beside him on his arm, and they were approaching the Pont des Arts, he fell upon Sandoz and Dubuche, who were coming down the steps of the bridge. It was impossible to avoid them, they were almost face to face; besides, his friends must have seen him, for they smiled. Claude, very pale, kept advancing, and he thought it all up on seeing Dubuche take a step towards him; but Sandoz was alread

ognised the rap, and felt so upset at the mishap that he overturned a chair. After that it was impossible to pretend to be out. But Christine turned so pale, and implored him with such a wild gesture, that he remained rooted to the spot, holding his breath. The knocks continued, and a voice called, 'Claude, Claude!' He still remained quite

k, and Claude had only just time to whisper de

quite scared and darted behind the screen, with her handke

was a burst of laughter, and the

ushered in Irma Becot, whose acquaintance he had made through F

our studio, so I brought he

, with perfect freedom of manner. 'Oh! how funny it is here. And what funny pain

ht push the screen aside. He pictured Christine behind

heerfully. 'What, don't you remember? You promised that sh

I will,'

take up all my time till the Salon. I have a figure in it that gives me a d

d at it with a knowing air. 'Oh! I see,' she said, 'that woma

de with the greatest energy replied, 'No, no madame wouldn't su

was afraid that another model would quite complete his confusion over that picture; and Irm

was a thing to be reproduced in sculpture. Then on the previous Sunday Gagniere had returned home from a Wagner concert with a black eye. He, Jory, had nearly had a duel at the Cafe Baudequin on account of one of his last articles in 'The Drummer.' The fact was he was giving

had taken up his palette and was shuffling about in f

I see; all right,

e her, and seized despite herself with a whim to please him. His studio was ugly, and he himself wasn't handsome; but why should he put on suc

like,' were he

strength to rise. She did not say a word about the girl, but simply declared that she had felt very frightened; and-trembling lest there should come anothe

those fans of dreamy delicacy, in which lilac-tinted couples floated about in bluish gardens-and she quite failed to understand Claude's work. Even now she often amused herself by painting tiny girlish landscapes, two or three subjects repeated over and over again-a lake with a ruin, a water-mill beating a stream, a chalet and

had spoken about. After objecting for a long while, she brought it with her, flattered at heart and feeling very curious to

it very bad

he replied. 'I

Claude's indulgent tone, whi

sons from mamma. I like paintin

burst into fr

fright. Certainly it is not the style of painting for ladies, least of all for young girls. But you'll get used to it;

his was the first stage on the road to conversion; she felt greatly moved by his rageful eagerness to be up and doing, the whole-heartedness with which he devoted himself to his work. Was it not very touching? Was there not something very creditable in it? Then, on noticing his joy or suffering, according to the success or the failure of the day's work, she began to associate herself with his efforts. She felt saddened when she found him sad, she grew cheerful when he received her cheerfully; and from that moment her worry was-had he done a lot of work? was he satisfied with what he had done since they had last seen each other? A

hought that she could detect in it a likeness of herself, and silent embarrassment, too, for that big figure continued to wound her feelings, although she now found less and less of a resemblance in it. At first she had protested by averting her eyes. Now she remained for several minutes looking at it fixedly, in mute contemplation. How was it that the likeness to herself had disappeared? The m

y from him as trait after trait vanished. Didn't he care for her that he thus allowed her to be effaced from

down, and he would only have taken some hints. But he had previously seen her so pained that he felt afraid of irritating her again. Moreover, after

ence. Everything had gone wrong that week; he talked of scraping his canvas again, and he paced up and down, beside himsel

is favour, or it'll kil

ot unders

t is it y

hes, she added, without heeding what she sai

or she did not know that she was prepared for this kind of thing; indeed, she could have sworn that she would never serve him as a model again. Her compliance already

never had he thrown such a play of real light over such a life-like face. Happy at seeing him so pleased, Christine also became gay, going as far as to express approval of h

'll finish her off with a mode

ed 'a triumphant war dance,' as he called it. She laughed very heartily, fond o

d with despair, he abandoned his picture and turned it against the wall, swearing that he would not finish it. But a fortnight later, he began to work at it again with another model, and then found himself obliged to change the whole tone of it. Thus matters got still worse; so he sent for Zoe again; became altogether at sea, and quite ill with uncertainty and a

y of fury escaped him: 'After all, by the thunder of heaven, is it possible t

It was she whom he needed; she alone could enable him to realise his dream, and he beheld her again in all her youthful freshness, beaming and indispensable. If he could not get her to pose, he might as well give up his picture, for no one else would ever satisfy him. At times, while he remained seated for hours, distracted in front of the unfinished canvas, so utterly powerless that he no longer knew where to give a stroke of the brus

e sun set in the coppery sky. Twice afterwards he again read in her looks that she was aware of his all-absorbing thought. In fact, since he had dreamt about it, she had began to do the same, in spite of herself, her attention roused by his involuntary allusions. They scarcely affected her at first, though she was obliged at last to notice them; still the question seemed

e without stumbling upon that thought, which they found impossible to put into words, though it filled their minds. Soon nothing but that remained in their fraternal intercourse. And the perturbation of heart and senses which they had so far avoided in the course o

ome with sorrow. He had not even heard her enter. He remained motionless, with vacant, haggard eyes staring

ding for a long time behind him, grief-

d and tur

ibit anything this year. Ah! I wh

y and agitation full of confused thoughts.

uld still

I thought I had hit upon an idea: Yes, it would be to go and fetch that girl, that Irma who came while you were here. I know well enough that she is short and not at

uld be the hoped-for miracle, and triumph would be certain, if you were to make this supreme sacrifice

she was desired, acting almost like one in a dream. Beneath it all there lurked the thought that he must not ask elsewhere, for she was now conscious of her earlier jealous disquietude and

ughing out of the whole figure. Never before had he felt such enthusiasm in his art. It seemed to him as if he were in the presence of some saint; and at times he wondered at the transfiguration of Christine's face, whose somewhat massive jaws seemed to have receded beneath the gentle placidity which her brow and cheeks d

vercome by emotion which still prevented them from speaking. Was it sadness, then, unconscious, unnameable sadness? For their eyes filled with tears, as if they had ju