o were listening,
frightened perchance by the candle which was still alight. At last,
after several minutes, the spring mattress creaked, and then all became
still.

'Are you comfortable, mademoiselle?' now asked Claude, in a much more
gentle voice.

'Yes, monsieur, very comfortable,' she replied, in a scarcely audible
voice, which still quivered with emotion.

'Very well, then. Good-night.'

'Good-night.'

He blew out the candle, and the silence became more intense. In spite of
his fatigue, his eyes soon opened again, and gazed upward at the large
window of the studio. The sky had become very clear again, the stars
were twinkling in the sultry July night, and, despite the storm, the
heat remained oppressive. Claude was thinking about the girl--agitated
for a moment by contrary feelings, though at last contempt gained
the mastery. He indeed believed himself to be very strong-minded; he
imagined a romance concocted to destroy his tranquillity, and he gibed
contentedly at having frustrated it. His experience of women was very
slight, nevertheless he endeavoured to draw certain conclusions from
the story she had told him, struck as he was at present by certain petty
details, and feeling perplexed. But why, after all, should he worry his
brain? What did it matter whether she had told him the truth or a lie?
In the morning she would go off; there would be an end to it all, and
they would never see each other again. Thus Claude lay cogitating, and
it was only towards daybreak, when the stars began to pale, that he
fell asleep. As for the girl behind the screen, in spite of the crushing
fatigue of her journey, she continued tossing about uneasily, oppressed
by the heaviness of the atmosphere beneath the hot zinc-work of the
roof; and doubtless, too, she was rendered nervous by the strangeness of
her surroundings.

In the morning, when Claude awoke, his eyes kept blinking. It was very
late, and the sunshine streamed through the large window. One of his
theories was, that young landscape painters should take studios despised
by the academical figure painters--studios which the sun flooded with
living beams. Nevertheless he felt dazzled, and fell back again on his
couch. Why the devil had he been sleeping there? His eyes, still heavy
with sleep, wandered mechanically round the studio, when, all at once,
beside the screen he noticed a heap of petticoats. Then he at
once remembered the girl. He began to listen, and heard a