s taking, and saved himself by belabouring the
painters of the School. Certainly his friends were right in one respect,
the School painters were real idiots. But as for the architects, that
was a different matter. Where was he to get his tuition, if not there?
Besides his tuition would not prevent him from having ideas of his own,
later on. Wherewith he assumed a very revolutionary air.

'All right,' said Sandoz, 'the moment you apologise, let's go and dine.'

But Claude had mechanically taken up a brush and set to work again.
Beside the gentleman in the velveteen jacket the figure of the recumbent
woman seemed to be fading away. Feverish and impatient, he traced a bold
outline round her so as to bring her forward.

'Are you coming?'

'In a minute; hang it, what's the hurry? Just let me set this right, and
I'll be with you.'

Sandoz shook his head and then remarked very quietly, lest he should
still further annoy him: 'You do wrong to worry yourself like that, old
man. Yes, you are knocked up, and have had nothing to eat, and you'll
only spoil your work, as you did the other day.'

But the painter waved him off with a peevish gesture. It was the old
story--he did not know when to leave off; he intoxicated himself with
work in his craving for an immediate result, in order to prove to
himself that he held his masterpiece at last. Doubts had just driven him
to despair in the midst of his delight at having terminated a successful
sitting. Had he done right, after all, in making the velveteen jacket
so prominent, and would he not afterwards fail to secure the brilliancy
which he wished the female figure to show? Rather than remain in
suspense he would have dropped down dead on the spot. Feverishly drawing
the sketch of Christine's head from the portfolio where he had hidden
it, he compared it with the painting on the canvas, assisting himself,
as it were, by means of this document derived from life.

'Hallo!' exclaimed Dubuche, 'where did you get that from? Who is it?'

Claude, startled by the questions, did not answer; then, without
reflecting, he who usually told them everything, brusquely lied,
prompted by a delicate impulse to keep silent respecting the adventure
of the night.

'Tell us who it is?' repeated the architect.

'Nobody at all--a model.'

'A model! a very young one, isn't she? She looks very nice. I wish you
would give me her address. Not for myself, but for a sculptor I know
who's on the look-out