le of the winter Claude's courage
revived once more. One day, while putting some old frames in order, he
came upon a roll of canvas which had fallen behind the other pictures.
On opening the roll he found on it the nude figure, the reclining woman
of his old painting, 'In the Open Air,' which he had cut out when the
picture had come back to him from the Salon of the Rejected. And, as he
gazed at it, he uttered a cry of admiration:

'By the gods, how beautiful it is!'

He at once secured it to the wall with four nails, and remained for
hours in contemplation before it. His hands shook, the blood rushed to
his face. Was it possible that he had painted such a masterly thing?
He had possessed genius in those days then. So his skull, his eyes, his
fingers had been changed. He became so feverishly excited and felt such
a need of unburthening himself to somebody, that at last he called his
wife.

'Just come and have a look. Isn't her attitude good, eh? How delicately
her muscles are articulated! Just look at that bit there, full of
sunlight. And at the shoulder here. Ah, heavens! it's full of life; I
can feel it throb as I touch it.'

Christine, standing by, kept looking and answering in monosyllables.
This resurrection of herself, after so many years, had at first
flattered and surprised her. But on seeing him become so excited, she
gradually felt uncomfortable and irritated, without knowing why.

'Tell me,' he continued, 'don't you think her beautiful enough for one
to go on one's knees to her?'

'Yes, yes. But she has become rather blackish--'

Claude protested vehemently. Become blackish, what an idea! That woman
would never grow black; she possessed immortal youth! Veritable passion
had seized hold of him; he spoke of the figure as of a living being; he
had sudden longings to look at her that made him leave everything else,
as if he were hurrying to an appointment.

Then, one morning, he was taken with a fit of work.

'But, confound it all, as I did that, I can surely do it again,' he
said. 'Ah, this time, unless I'm a downright brute, we'll see about it.'

And Christine had to give him a sitting there and then. For eight hours
a day, indeed, during a whole month he kept her before him, without
compassion for her increasing exhaustion or for the fatigue he felt
himself. He obstinately insisted upon producing a masterpiece; he was
determined that the upright figure of his big picture should equal that
reclining