he
shared his work again, since the three of them, he, she, and the canvas,
were side by side, her hope revived. If he had escaped her when she, all
alone, cried her eyes out in the Rue de Douai, if he lingered till late
in the Rue Tourlaque, fascinated as by a mistress, perhaps now that she
was present she might regain her hold over him. Ah, painting, painting!
in what jealous hatred she held it! Hers was no longer the revolt of a
girl of the bourgeoisie, who painted neatly in water-colours, against
independent, brutal, magnificent art. No, little by little she had come
to understand it, drawn towards it at first by her love for the painter,
and gained over afterwards by the feast of light, by the original charm
of the bright tints which Claude's works displayed. And now she had
accepted everything, even lilac-tinted soil and blue trees. Indeed, a
kind of respect made her quiver before those works which had at first
seemed so horrid to her. She recognised their power well enough, and
treated them like rivals about whom one could no longer joke. But her
vindictiveness grew in proportion to her admiration; she revolted at
having to stand by and witness, as it were, a diminution of herself, the
blow of another love beneath her own roof.

At first there was a silent struggle of every minute. She thrust herself
forward, interposed whatever she could, a hand, a shoulder, between the
painter and his picture. She was always there, encompassing him with her
breath, reminding him that he was hers. Then her old idea revived--she
also would paint; she would seek and join him in the depths of his art
fever. Every day for a whole month she put on a blouse, and worked like
a pupil by the side of a master, diligently copying one of his sketches,
and she only gave in when she found the effort turn against her
object; for, deceived, as it were, by their joint work, he finished by
forgetting that she was a woman, and lived with her on a footing of mere
comradeship as between man and man. Accordingly she resorted to what was
her only strength.

To perfect some of the small figures of his latter pictures, Claude had
many a time already taken the hint of a head, the pose of an arm, the
attitude of a body from Christine. He threw a cloak over her shoulders,
and caught her in the posture he wanted, shouting to her not to stir.
These were little services which she showed herself only too pleased to
render him, but she had not hitherto cared t