self, and kicking the furniture about. Then
all of a sudden he caught her by the shoulders, and made her sit down on
the couch.

'I beg of you, do me this favour, or it'll kill me, I swear it will.'

She did not understand him.

'What--what is it you want?'

Then as soon as she saw him take up his brushes, she added, without
heeding what she said, 'Ah, yes! Why did not you ask me before?'

And of her own accord she threw herself back on a cushion and slipped
her arm under her neck. But surprise and confusion at having yielded so
quickly made her grave, for 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 filled her with
remorse, as if she were lending herself to something wrong by letting
him impart her own countenance to that big creature, lying refulgent
under the sun.

However, in two sittings, Claude worked in the head all right. He
exulted with delight, and exclaimed that it was the best bit of painting
he had ever done; and he was right, 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 her
head, which, though not extremely like her, had a wonderful expression.
They stood for a long while before the picture, blinking at it, and
drawing back as far as the wall.

'And now,' he said at last, 'I'll finish her off with a model. Ah! so
I've got her at last.'

In a burst of childish glee, he took the girl round the waist, and they
performed 'a triumphant war dance,' as he called it. She laughed very
heartily, fond of romping as she was, and no longer feeling aught of her
scruples and discomfort.

But the very next week Claude became gloomy again. He had chosen Zoe
Piedefer as a model, but she did not satisfy him. Christine's delicate
head, as he expressed it, did not set well on the other's shoulders. He,
nevertheless, persisted, scratched out, began anew, and worked so
hard that he lived in a constant state of fever. Towards the middle of
January, seized 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, an