asked
what the subject was, stupefied that she could make nothing out of it;
and when her husband, turning over the leaves of the catalogue, had
found the title, 'The Dead Child,' she dragged him away, shuddering, and
raising this cry of affright:

'Oh, the horror! The police oughtn't to allow such horrors!'

Then Claude remained there, erect, unconscious and haunted, his eyes
raised on high, amid the continuous flow of the crowd which passed on,
quite indifferent, without one glance for that unique sacred thing,
visible to him alone. And it was there that Sandoz came upon him, amid
the jostling.

The novelist, who had been strolling about alone--his wife having
remained at home beside his ailing mother--had just stopped short,
heart-rent, below the little canvas, which he had espied by chance. Ah!
how disgusted he felt with life! He abruptly lived the days of his youth
over again. He recalled the college of Plassans, his freaks with Claude
on the banks of the Viorne, their long excursions under the burning sun,
and all the flaming of their early ambition; and, later on, when they
had lived side by side, he remembered their efforts, their certainty of
coming glory, that fine irresistible, immoderate appetite that had
made them talk of swallowing Paris at one bite! How many times, at that
period, had he seen in Claude a great man, whose unbridled genius would
leave the talent of all others far behind in the rear! First had come
the studio of the Impasse des Bourdonnais; later, the studio of the Quai
de Bourbon, with dreams of vast compositions, projects big enough to
make the Louvre burst; and, meanwhile, the struggle was incessant; the
painter laboured ten hours a day, devoting his whole being to his work.
And then what? After twenty years of that passionate life he ended
thus--he finished with that poor, sinister little thing, which nobody
noticed, which looked so distressfully sad in its leper-like solitude!
So much hope and torture, a lifetime spent in the toil of creating, to
come to that, to that, good God!

Sandoz recognised Claude standing by, and fraternal emotion made his
voice quake as he said to him:

'What! so you came? Why did you refuse to call for me, then?'

The painter did not even apologise. He seemed very tired, overcome with
somniferous stupor.

'Well, don't stay here,' added Sandoz. 'It's past twelve o'clock, and
you must lunch with me. Some people were to wait for me at Ledoyen's;
but I sh