e
crowed and kicked with his tiny pink feet in the air, rolling about and
turning somersaults. The father, after laughing, became angry, and swore
at the tiresome mite, who would not keep quiet for a minute. Who ever
heard of trifling with painting? Then the mother made big eyes at the
little one, and held him while the painter quickly sketched an arm or a
leg. Claude obstinately kept at it for weeks, tempted as he felt by the
pretty tones of that childish skin. It was not as a father, but as an
artist, that he gloated over the boy as the subject for a masterpiece,
blinking his eyes the while, and dreaming of some wonderful picture he
would paint. And he renewed the experiment again and again, watching the
lad for days, and feeling furious when the little scamp would not go to
sleep at times when he, Claude, might so well have painted him.

One day, when Jacques was sobbing, refusing to keep still, Christine
gently remarked:

'My dear, you tire the poor pet.'

At this Claude burst forth, full of remorse:

'After all! you are right; I'm a fool with this painting of mine.
Children are not intended for that sort of thing.'

The spring and summer sped by amidst great quietude. They went out less
often; they had almost given up the boat, which finished rotting against
the bank, for it was quite a job to take the little one with them
among the islets. But they often strolled along the banks of the Seine,
without, however, going farther afield than a thousand yards or so.
Claude, tired of the everlasting views in the garden, now attempted some
sketches by the river-side, and on such days Christine went to fetch him
with the child, sitting down to watch him paint, until they all three
returned home with flagging steps, beneath the ashen dusk of waning
daylight. One afternoon Claude was surprised to see Christine bring with
her the old album which she had used as a young girl. She joked about
it, and explained that to sit behind him like that had roused in her a
wish to work herself. Her voice was a little unsteady as she spoke; the
truth was that she felt a longing to share his labour, since this labour
took him away from her more and more each day. She drew and ventured
to wash in two or three water-colours in the careful style of a
school-girl. Then, discouraged by his smiles, feeling that no community
of ideas would be arrived at on that ground, she once more put her album
aside, making him promise to give her some less