bits over again—­the two arms of the Seine, and a sky all by itself, into which rose only towers and spires gilded by the sun.  And under the hospitable bridge, in that nook as secluded as some far-off cleft in a rock, he was rarely disturbed by anybody.  Anglers passed by with contemptuous unconcern.  His only companion was virtually the overseer’s cat, who cleaned herself in the sunlight, ever placid beneath the tumult of the world overhead.

At last Claude had all his materials ready.  In a few days he threw off an outline sketch of the whole, and the great work was begun.  However, the first battle between himself and his huge canvas raged in the Rue Tourlaque throughout the summer; for he obstinately insisted upon personally attending to all the technical calculations of his composition, and he failed to manage them, getting into constant muddles about the slightest deviation from mathematical accuracy, of which he had no experience.  It made him indignant with himself.  So he let it go, deciding to make what corrections might be necessary afterwards.  He covered his canvas with a rush—­in such a fever as to live all day on his steps, brandishing huge brushes, and expending as much muscular force as if he were anxious to move mountains.  And when evening came he reeled about like a drunken man, and fell asleep as soon as he had swallowed his last mouthful of food.  His wife even had to put him to bed like a child.  From those heroic efforts, however, sprang a masterly first draught in which genius blazed forth amidst the somewhat chaotic masses of colour.  Bongrand, who came to look at it, caught the painter in his big arms, and stifled him with embraces, his eyes full of tears.  Sandoz, in his enthusiasm, gave a dinner; the others, Jory, Mahoudeau and Gagniere, again went about announcing a masterpiece.  As for Fagerolles, he remained motionless before the painting for a moment, then burst into congratulations, pronouncing it too beautiful.

And, in fact, subsequently, as if the irony of that successful trickster had brought him bad luck, Claude only spoilt his original draught.  It was the old story over again.  He spent himself in one effort, one magnificent dash; he failed to bring out all the rest; he did not know how to finish.  He fell into his former impotence; for two years he lived before that picture only, having no feeling for anything else.  At times he was in a seventh heaven of exuberant joy; at others flung to earth, so wretched, so distracted by doubt, that dying men gasping in their beds in a hospital were happier than himself.  Twice already had he failed to be ready for the Salon, for invariably, at the last moment, when he hoped to have finished in a few sittings, he found some void, felt his composition crack and crumble beneath his fingers.  When the third Salon drew nigh, there came a terrible crisis; he remained for a fortnight without going to his studio in the Rue Tourlaque, and when he did so, it was as to a house desolated by death.  He turned the huge canvas to the wall and rolled his steps into a corner; he would have smashed and burned everything if his faltering hands had found strength enough.  Nothing more existed; amid a blast of anger he swept the floor clean, and spoke of setting to work at little things, since he was incapable of perfecting paintings of any size.