‘You’ll paint me my lobster, eh, Lantier?  Much obliged.’  And he stationed himself anew before the large canvas, with his wonted smile of mingled derision and admiration.  And at last he went off, repeating, ‘Well, well, there’s a machine.’

Claude wanted to take up his palette and brushes once more.  But his legs refused their service; his arms fell to his side, stiff, as if pinioned there by some occult force.  In the intense melancholy silence that had followed the din of the dispute he staggered, distracted, bereft of sight before his shapeless work.

‘I’m done for, I’m done for,’ he gasped.  ’That brute has finished me off!’

The clock had just struck seven; he had been at work for eight mortal hours without tasting anything but a crust of bread, without taking a moment’s rest, ever on his legs, shaken by feverish excitement.  And now the sun was setting, shadows began to darken the studio, which in the gloaming assumed a most melancholy aspect.  When the light went down like this on the crisis of a bad day’s work, it seemed to Claude as if the sun would never rise again, but had for ever carried life and all the jubilant gaiety of colour away.

‘Come,’ implored Sandoz, with all the gentleness of brotherly compassion.  ‘Come, there’s a good fellow.’

Even Dubuche added, ’You’ll see more clearly into it to-morrow.  Come and dine.’

For a moment Claude refused to surrender.  He stood rooted to the spot, deaf to their friendly voices, and fiercely obstinate.

What did he want to do then, since his tired fingers were no longer able to grasp the brush?  He did not know, but, however powerless he might be, he was gnawed by a mad craving to go on working still and to create in spite of everything.  Even if he did nothing, he would at least stay there, he would not vacate the spot.  All at once, however, he made up his mind, shaken the while as by a big sob.  He clutched firmly hold of his broadest palette-knife, and, with one deep, slow sweep, he obliterated the woman’s head and bosom.  It was veritable murder, a pounding away of human flesh; the whole disappeared in a murky, muddy mash.  By the side of the gentleman in the dark jacket, amidst the bright verdure, where the two little wrestlers so lightly tinted were disporting themselves, there remained naught of the nude, headless, breastless woman but a mutilated trunk, a vague cadaverous stump, an indistinct, lifeless patch of visionary flesh.

Sandoz and Dubuche were already descending the stairs with a great clatter, and Claude followed them, fleeing his work, in agony at having to leave it thus scarred with a gaping gash.

III