owing morning, Claude had just finished dressing, when he
heard Christine calling in a frightened voice. She also had just woke
with a start from the heavy sleep which had benumbed her while she sat
watching the sick child.

'Claude! Claude! Oh, look! He is dead.'

The painter rushed forward, with heavy eyes, stumbling, and apparently
failing to understand, for he repeated with an air of profound
amazement, 'What do you mean by saying he is dead?'

For a moment they remained staring wildly at the bed. The poor little
fellow, with his disproportionate head--the head of the progeny of
genius, exaggerated as to verge upon cretinism--did not appear to have
stirred since the previous night; but no breath came from his mouth,
which had widened and become discoloured, and his glassy eyes were open.
His father laid his hands upon him and found him icy cold.

'It is true, he is dead.'

And their stupor was such that for yet another moment they remained with
their eyes dry, simply thunderstruck, as it were, by the abruptness of
that death which they considered incredible.

Then, her knees bending under her, Christine dropped down in front of
the bed, bursting into violent sobs which shook her from head to foot,
and wringing her hands, whilst her forehead remained pressed against
the mattress. In that first moment of horror her despair was aggravated
above all by poignant remorse--the remorse of not having sufficiently
cared for the poor child. Former days started up before her in a rapid
vision, each bringing with it regretfulness for unkind words, deferred
caresses, rough treatment even. And now it was all over; she would never
be able to compensate the lad for the affection she had withheld from
him. He whom she thought so disobedient had obeyed but too well at last.
She had so often told him when at play to be still, and not to disturb
his father at his work, that he was quiet at last, and for ever. The
idea suffocated her; each sob drew from her a dull moan.

Claude had begun walking up and down the studio, unable to remain still.
With his features convulsed, he shed a few big tears, which he brushed
away with the back of his hand. And whenever he passed in front of the
little corpse he could not help glancing at it. The glassy eyes, wide
open, seemed to exercise a spell over him. At first he resisted, but a
confused idea assumed shape within him, and would not be shaken off. He
yielded to it at last, took a small canv