o go further, for she was
hurt by the idea of being a model now that she was his wife. However,
since Claude had broadly outlined the large upright female figure which
was to occupy the centre of his picture, Christine had looked at the
vague silhouette in a dreamy way, worried by an ever-pursuing thought
before which all scruples vanished. And so, when he spoke of taking a
model, she offered herself, reminding him that she had posed for the
figure in the 'Open Air' subject, long ago. 'A model,' she added, 'would
cost you seven francs a sitting. We are not so rich, we may as well save
the money.'

The question of economy decided him at once.

'I'm agreeable, and it's even very good of you to show such courage, for
you know that it is not a bit of pastime to sit for me. Never mind, you
had better confess to it, you big silly, you are afraid of another woman
coming here; you are jealous.'

Jealous! Yes, indeed she was jealous, so she suffered agony. But she
snapped her fingers at other women; all the models in Paris might have
sat to him for what she cared. She had but one rival, that painting,
that art which robbed her of him.

Claude, who was delighted, at first made a study, a simple academic
study, in the attitude required for his picture. They waited until
Jacques had gone to school, and the sitting lasted for hours. During
the earlier days Christine suffered a great deal from being obliged to
remain in the same position; then she grew used to it, not daring to
complain, lest she might vex him, and even restraining her tears when
he roughly pushed her about. And he soon acquired the habit of doing so,
treating her like a mere model; more exacting with her, however, than if
he had paid her, never afraid of unduly taxing her strength, since she
was his wife. He employed her for every purpose, at every minute, for an
arm, a foot, the most trifling detail that he stood in need of. And thus
in a way he lowered her to the level of a 'living lay figure,' which he
stuck in front of him and copied as he might have copied a pitcher or a
stew-pan for a bit of still life.

This time Claude proceeded leisurely, and before roughing in the large
figure he tired Christine for months by making her pose in twenty
different ways. At last, one day, he began the roughing in. It was an
autumnal morning, the north wind was already sharp, and it was by no
means warm even in the big studio, although the stove was roaring. As
little Jac