erienced great grief. His mother died,
his whole life was upset--that life of three together, so homely in
its character, and shared merely by a few friends. He began to hate the
pavilion of the Rue Nollet, and, moreover, success suddenly declared
itself with respect to his books, which hitherto had sold but moderately
well. So, prompted by the advent of comparative wealth, he rented in the
Rue de Londres a spacious flat, the arrangements of which occupied him
and his wife for several months. Sandoz's grief had drawn him closer to
Claude again, both being disgusted with everything. After the terrible
blow of the Salon, the novelist had felt very anxious about his old
chum, divining that something had irreparably snapped within him, that
there was some wound by which life ebbed away unseen. Then, however,
finding Claude so cold and quiet, he ended by growing somewhat
reassured.

Sandoz often walked up to the Rue Tourlaque, and whenever he found only
Christine at home, he questioned her, realising that she also lived in
apprehension of a calamity of which she never spoke. Her face bore a
look of worry, and now and again she started nervously, like a mother
who watches over her child and trembles at the slightest sound, with the
fear that death may be entering the chamber.

One July morning Sandoz asked her: 'Well, are you pleased? Claude's
quiet, he works a deal.'

She gave the large picture her usual glance, a side glance full of
terror and hatred.

'Yes, yes, he works,' she said. 'He wants to finish everything else
before taking up the woman again.' And without confessing the fear that
harassed her, she added in a lower tone: 'But his eyes--have you noticed
his eyes? They always have the same wild expression. I know very well
that he lies, despite his pretence of taking things so easily. Pray,
come and see him, and take him out with you, so as to change the current
of his thoughts. He only has you left; help me, do help me!'

After that Sandoz diligently devised motives for various walks, arriving
at Claude's early in the morning, and carrying him away from his work
perforce. It was almost always necessary to drag him from his steps,
on which he habitually sat, even when he was not painting. A feeling of
weariness stopped him, a kind of torpor benumbed him for long minutes,
during which he did not give a single stroke with the brush. In those
moments of mute contemplation, his gaze reverted with pious fervour to
t