Sandoz, silent, fell despair steal over him as he sat in front of that magnificent failure.  But he saw Christine’s eyes fixed upon him, and had sufficient strength of mind to say: 

‘Astounding!—­the woman, astounding!’

At that moment Claude came in, and on seeing his old chum he uttered a joyous exclamation and shook his hand vigorously.  Then he approached Christine, and kissed little Jacques, who had once more thrown off the bedclothes.

‘How is he?’

‘Just the same.’

‘To be sure, to be sure; he is growing too fast.  A few days’ rest will set him all right.  I told you not to be uneasy.’

And Claude thereupon sat down beside Sandoz on the couch.  They both took their ease, leaning back, with their eyes surveying the picture; while Christine, seated by the bed, looked at nothing, and seemingly thought of nothing, in the everlasting desolation of her heart.  Night was slowly coming on, the vivid light from the window paled already, losing its sheen amidst the slowly-falling crepuscular dimness.

’So it’s settled; your wife told me that you were going to send it in.’

‘Yes.’

’You are right; you had better have done with it once for all.  Oh, there are some magnificent bits in it.  The quay in perspective to the left, the man who shoulders that sack below.  But—­’

He hesitated, then finally took the bull by the horns.

’But, it’s odd that you have persisted in leaving those women nude.  It isn’t logical, I assure you; and, besides, you promised me you would dress them—­don’t you remember?  You have set your heart upon them very much then?’

‘Yes.’

Claude answered curtly, with the obstinacy of one mastered by a fixed idea and unwilling to give any explanations.  Then he crossed his arms behind his head, and began talking of other things, without, however, taking his eyes off his picture, over which the twilight began to cast a slight shadow.

‘Do you know where I have just come from?’ he asked.  ’I have been to Courajod’s.  You know, the great landscape painter, whose “Pond of Gagny” is at the Luxembourg.  You remember, I thought he was dead, and we were told that he lived hereabouts, on the other side of the hill, in the Rue de l’Abreuvoir.  Well, old boy, he worried me, did Courajod.  While taking a breath of air now and then up there, I discovered his shanty, and I could no longer pass in front of it without wanting to go inside.  Just think, a master, a man who invented our modern landscape school, and who lives there, unknown, done for, like a mole in its hole!  You can have no idea of the street or the caboose:  a village street, full of fowls, and bordered by grassy banks; and a caboose like a child’s toy, with tiny windows, a tiny door, a tiny garden.  Oh! the garden—­a mere patch of soil, sloping down abruptly, with a bed where four pear trees stand, and the rest taken up by a fowl-house, made out of green boards, old plaster, and wire network, held together with bits of string.’