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Stroeve's idea of the proper environment for an artist.
There were bits of old brocade on the walls, and the piano
was covered with a piece of silk, beautiful and tarnished;
in one corner was a copy of the Venus of Milo, and
in another of the Venus of the Medici. Here and there was an
Italian cabinet surmounted with Delft, and here and there a
bas-relief. In a handsome gold frame was a copy of Velasquez'
Innocent X., that Stroeve had made in Rome, and placed so as
to make the most of their decorative effect were a number of
Stroeve's pictures, all in splendid frames. Stroeve had
always been very proud of his taste. He had never lost his
appreciation for the romantic atmosphere of a studio, and
though now the sight of it was like a stab in his heart,
without thinking what he was at, he changed slightly the
position of a Louis XV. table which was one of his treasures.
Suddenly he caught sight of a canvas with its face to the wall.
It was a much larger one than he himself was in the
habit of using, and he wondered what it did there. He went
over to it and leaned it towards him so that he could see the
painting. It was a nude. His heart began to beat quickly,
for he guessed at once that it was one of Strickland's
pictures. He flung it back against the wall angrily -- what
did he mean by leaving it there? -- but his movement caused it
to fall, face downwards, on the ground. No mater whose the
picture, he could not leave it there in the dust, and he
raised it; but then curiosity got the better of him.
He thought he would like to have a proper look at it, so he
brought it along and set it on the easel. Then he stood back
in order to see it at his ease.

He gave a gasp. It was the picture of a woman lying on a sofa,
with one arm beneath her head and the other along her body;
one knee was raised, and the other leg was stretched out.
The pose was classic. Stroeve's head swam. It was Blanche.
Grief and jealousy and rage seized him, and he cried
out hoarsely; he was inarticulate; he clenched his fists and
raised them threateningly at an invisible enemy. He screamed
at the top of his voice. He was beside himself. He could not
bear it. That was too much. He looked round wildly for some
instrument; he wanted to hack the picture to pieces; it should
not exist another minute. He could see nothing that would
serve his purpose; he rummaged about his painting things;
somehow he could not find a thing; he was fran