nert
object, he abandoned himself, waved about, and ultimately found himself
again on the same spot as before without having once lowered his
head, quite ignorant of what was occurring below, all his life being
concentrated up yonder beside his work, his little Jacques, swollen
in death. Two big tears which stood motionless between his eyelids
prevented him from seeing clearly. And it seemed to him as if he would
never have time to see enough.

Then Sandoz, in his deep compassion, pretended he did not perceive his
old friend; it was as if he wished to leave him there, beside the tomb
of his wrecked life. Their comrades once more went past in a band.
Fagerolles and Jory darted on ahead, and, Mahoudeau having asked Sandoz
where Claude's picture was hung, the novelist told a lie, drew him aside
and took him off. All of them went away.

In the evening Christine only managed to draw curt words from Claude;
everything was going on all right, said he; the public showed no
ill-humour; the picture had a good effect, though it was hung perhaps
rather high up. However, despite this semblance of cold tranquillity, he
seemed so strange that she became frightened.

After dinner, as she returned from carrying the dirty plates into the
kitchen, she no longer found him near the table. He had opened a window
which overlooked some waste ground, and he stood there, leaning out
to such a degree that she could scarcely see him. At this she sprang
forward, terrified, and pulled him violently by his jacket.

'Claude! Claude! what are you doing?'

He turned round, with his face as white as a sheet and his eyes haggard.

'I'm looking,' he said.

But she closed the window with trembling hands, and after that
significant incident such anguish clung to her that she no longer slept
at night-time.

XI

CLAUDE set to work again on the very next day, and months elapsed,
indeed the whole summer went by, in heavy quietude. He had found a job,
some little paintings of flowers for England, the proceeds of which
sufficed for their daily bread. All his available time was again devoted
to his large canvas, and he no longer went into the same fits of anger
over it, but seemed to resign himself to that eternal task, evincing
obstinate, hopeless industry. However, his eyes retained their crazy
expression--one could see the death of light, as it were, in them, when
they gazed upon the failure of his existence.

About this period Sandoz also exp