d her features. The idea absolutely revolted her, and
she was wounded too by the wildness of the painting, so brutal indeed
that she considered herself abominably insulted. She did not understand
that kind of art; she thought it execrable, and felt a hatred against
it, the instinctive hatred of an enemy. She rose at last, and curtly
repeated, 'I must be going.'

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

'Going already?'

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

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

'When shall I see you again?'

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

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

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

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

Two more months passed by. During the earlier days Claude, at the
slightest stir of a morning, when Madame Joseph brought him up his
breakfast or his letters, quickly turned his head, and could not control
a gesture of disappointment. He no longer went out until after four, and
the doorkeeper having told him one evening, on his return home, that a
young person had called to see him at about five, he had only grown calm
on ascertaining that the visitor was merely a model, Zoe Piedefer. Then,
as the days went by, he was seized with a furious fit of work, becoming
unapproachable to every one, indulging in such violent theories that
even his friends did not venture to contradict him. He swept the world
from his path with one gesture; there was no longer to be anything
but painting left. One might murder one's parents, comrades, and women
especially, and it would all be a good riddance. After this terrible
fever he fell i