For a moment they remained staring wildly at the bed.  The poor little fellow, with his disproportionate head—­the head of the progeny of genius, exaggerated as to verge upon cretinism—­did not appear to have stirred since the previous night; but no breath came from his mouth, which had widened and become discoloured, and his glassy eyes were open.  His father laid his hands upon him and found him icy cold.

‘It is true, he is dead.’

And their stupor was such that for yet another moment they remained with their eyes dry, simply thunderstruck, as it were, by the abruptness of that death which they considered incredible.

Then, her knees bending under her, Christine dropped down in front of the bed, bursting into violent sobs which shook her from head to foot, and wringing her hands, whilst her forehead remained pressed against the mattress.  In that first moment of horror her despair was aggravated above all by poignant remorse—­the remorse of not having sufficiently cared for the poor child.  Former days started up before her in a rapid vision, each bringing with it regretfulness for unkind words, deferred caresses, rough treatment even.  And now it was all over; she would never be able to compensate the lad for the affection she had withheld from him.  He whom she thought so disobedient had obeyed but too well at last.  She had so often told him when at play to be still, and not to disturb his father at his work, that he was quiet at last, and for ever.  The idea suffocated her; each sob drew from her a dull moan.

Claude had begun walking up and down the studio, unable to remain still.  With his features convulsed, he shed a few big tears, which he brushed away with the back of his hand.  And whenever he passed in front of the little corpse he could not help glancing at it.  The glassy eyes, wide open, seemed to exercise a spell over him.  At first he resisted, but a confused idea assumed shape within him, and would not be shaken off.  He yielded to it at last, took a small canvas, and began to paint a study of the dead child.  For the first few minutes his tears dimmed his sight, wrapping everything in a mist; but he kept wiping them away, and persevered with his work, even though his brush shook.  Then the passion for art dried his tears and steadied his hand, and in a little while it was no longer his icy son that lay there, but merely a model, a subject, the strange interest of which stirred him.  That huge head, that waxy flesh, those eyes which looked like holes staring into space—­all excited and thrilled him.  He stepped back, seemed to take pleasure in his work, and vaguely smiled at it.

When Christine rose from her knees, she found him thus occupied.  Then, bursting into tears again, she merely said: 

‘Ah! you can paint him now, he’ll never stir again.’

For five hours Claude kept at it, and on the second day, when Sandoz came back with him from the cemetery, after the funeral, he shuddered with pity and admiration at the sight of the small canvas.  It was one of the fine bits of former days, a masterpiece of limpidity and power, to which was added a note of boundless melancholy, the end of everything—­all life ebbing away with the death of that child.