ow, on a level with
the stream, and beating their dirty linen. In the middle of the river,
he studied a boat which a waterman sculled over the stern; then,
farther behind, a steamer of the towing service straining its chain, and
dragging a series of rafts loaded with barrels and boards up stream. The
principal backgrounds had been sketched a long while ago, still he did
several bits over again--the two arms of the Seine, and a sky all by
itself, into which rose only towers and spires gilded by the sun. And
under the hospitable bridge, in that nook as secluded as some far-off
cleft in a rock, he was rarely disturbed by anybody. Anglers passed
by with contemptuous unconcern. His only companion was virtually the
overseer's cat, who cleaned herself in the sunlight, ever placid beneath
the tumult of the world overhead.

At last Claude had all his materials ready. In a few days he threw off
an outline sketch of the whole, and the great work was begun. However,
the first battle between himself and his huge canvas raged in the
Rue Tourlaque throughout the summer; for he obstinately insisted
upon personally attending to all the technical calculations of his
composition, and he failed to manage them, getting into constant muddles
about the slightest deviation from mathematical accuracy, of which he
had no experience. It made him indignant with himself. So he let it
go, deciding to make what corrections might be necessary afterwards. He
covered his canvas with a rush--in such a fever as to live all day on
his steps, brandishing huge brushes, and expending as much muscular
force as if he were anxious to move mountains. And when evening came
he reeled about like a drunken man, and fell asleep as soon as he had
swallowed his last mouthful of food. His wife even had to put him to
bed like a child. From those heroic efforts, however, sprang a masterly
first draught in which genius blazed forth amidst the somewhat chaotic
masses of colour. Bongrand, who came to look at it, caught the painter
in his big arms, and stifled him with embraces, his eyes full of tears.
Sandoz, in his enthusiasm, gave a dinner; the others, Jory, Mahoudeau
and Gagniere, again went about announcing a masterpiece. As for
Fagerolles, he remained motionless before the painting for a moment,
then burst into congratulations, pronouncing it too beautiful.

And, in fact, subsequently, as if the irony of that successful trickster
had brought him bad luck, Claude only sp