r, she did not deceive
herself; she fully realised that he preferred her counterfeit to
herself, that her image was the worshipped one, the sole thought, the
affection of his every hour. He almost killed her with long sittings in
that cold draughty studio, in order to enhance the beauty of the other;
upon whom depended all his joys and sorrows according as to whether he
beheld her live or languish beneath his brush. Was not this love?
And what suffering to have to lend herself so that the other might be
created, so that she might be haunted by a nightmare of that rival, so
that the latter might for ever rise between them, more powerful than
reality! To think of it! So much dust, the veriest trifle, a patch
of colour on a canvas, a mere semblance destroying all their
happiness!--he, silent, indifferent, brutal at times, and she, tortured
by his desertion, in despair at being unable to drive away that creature
who ever encroached more and more upon their daily life!

And it was then that Christine, finding herself altogether beaten in her
efforts to regain Claude's love, felt all the sovereignty of art weigh
down upon her. That painting, which she had already accepted without
restriction, she raised still higher in her estimation, placed inside an
awesome tabernacle before which she remained overcome, as before those
powerful divinities of wrath which one honours from the very hatred
and fear that they inspire. Hers was a holy awe, a conviction that
struggling was henceforth useless, that she would be crushed like a
bit of straw if she persisted in her obstinacy. Each of her husband's
canvases became magnified in her eyes, the smallest assumed triumphal
dimensions, even the worst painted of them overwhelmed her with victory,
and she no longer judged them, but grovelled, trembling, thinking them
all formidable, and invariably replying to Claude's questions:

'Oh, yes; very good! Oh, superb! Oh, very, very extraordinary that one!'

Nevertheless, she harboured no anger against him; she still worshipped
him with tearful tenderness, as she saw him thus consume himself with
efforts. After a few weeks of successful work, everything got spoilt
again; he could not finish his large female figure. At times he almost
killed his model with fatigue, keeping hard at work for days and days
together, then leaving the picture untouched for a whole month. The
figure was begun anew, relinquished, painted all over again at least a
dozen tim