father
had to come to the rescue, and proved still more awkward than the two
women. The discomfort which needlework had caused Christine of old, her
want of aptitude as regards the usual occupations of her sex, revived
amid the cares that the baby required. The child was ill-kept, and grew
up anyhow in the garden, or in the large rooms left untidy in sheer
despair, amidst broken toys, uncleanliness and destruction. And when
matters became too bad altogether, Christine could only throw herself
upon the neck of the man she loved. She was pre-eminently an amorosa and
would have sacrificed her son for his father twenty times over.

It was at this period, however, that Claude resumed work a little. The
winter was drawing to a close; he did not know how to spend the bright
sunny mornings, since Christine could no longer go out before mid-day
on account of Jacques, whom they had named thus after his maternal
grandfather, though they neglected to have him christened. Claude worked
in the garden, at first, in a random way: made a rough sketch of the
lines of apricot trees, roughed out the giant rose-bushes, composed some
bits of 'still life,' out of four apples, a bottle, and a stoneware
jar, disposed on a table-napkin. This was only to pass his time. But
afterwards he warmed to his work; the idea of painting a figure in
the full sunlight ended by haunting him; and from that moment his wife
became his victim, she herself agreeable enough, offering herself,
feeling happy at affording him pleasure, without as yet understanding
what a terrible rival she was giving herself in art. He painted her a
score of times, dressed in white, in red, amidst the verdure, standing,
walking, or reclining on the grass, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat,
or bare-headed, under a parasol, the cherry-tinted silk of which
steeped her features in a pinky glow. He never felt wholly satisfied;
he scratched out the canvases after two or three sittings, and at once
began them afresh, obstinately sticking to the same subject. Only a few
studies, incomplete, but charmingly indicated in a vigorous style,
were saved from the palette-knife, and hung against the walls of the
dining-room.

And after Christine it became Jacques' turn to pose. They stripped
him to the skin, like a little St. John the Baptist, on warm days, and
stretched him on a blanket, where he was told not to stir. But devil a
bit could they make him keep still. Getting frisky, in the sunlight, h