Christine at once recognised herself.  Yes, that nude girl sprawling on the grass, one arm behind her head, smiling with lowered eyelids, was herself, for she had her features.  The idea absolutely revolted her, and she was wounded too by the wildness of the painting, so brutal indeed that she considered herself abominably insulted.  She did not understand that kind of art; she thought it execrable, and felt a hatred against it, the instinctive hatred of an enemy.  She rose at last, and curtly repeated, ‘I must be going.’

Claude watched her attentively, both grieved and surprised by her sudden change of manner.

‘Going already?’

‘Yes, they are waiting for me.  Good-bye.’

And she had already reached the door before he could take her hand, and venture to ask her: 

‘When shall I see you again?’

She allowed her hand to remain in his.  For a moment she seemed to hesitate.

‘I don’t know.  I am so busy.’

Then she withdrew her hand and went off, hastily, saying:  ’One of these days, when I can.  Good-bye.’

Claude remained stock-still on the threshold.  He wondered what had come over her again to cause her sudden coolness, her covert irritation.  He closed the door, and walked about, with dangling arms, and without understanding, seeking vainly for the phrase, the gesture that could have offended her.  And he in his turn became angry, and launched an oath into space, with a terrific shrug of the shoulders, as if to rid himself of this silly worry.  Did a man ever understand women?  However, the sight of the roses, overlapping the water-jug, pacified him; they smelt so sweet.  Their scent pervaded the whole studio, and silently he resumed his work amidst the perfume.

Two more months passed by.  During the earlier days Claude, at the slightest stir of a morning, when Madame Joseph brought him up his breakfast or his letters, quickly turned his head, and could not control a gesture of disappointment.  He no longer went out until after four, and the doorkeeper having told him one evening, on his return home, that a young person had called to see him at about five, he had only grown calm on ascertaining that the visitor was merely a model, Zoe Piedefer.  Then, as the days went by, he was seized with a furious fit of work, becoming unapproachable to every one, indulging in such violent theories that even his friends did not venture to contradict him.  He swept the world from his path with one gesture; there was no longer to be anything but painting left.  One might murder one’s parents, comrades, and women especially, and it would all be a good riddance.  After this terrible fever he fell into abominable despondency, spending a week of impotence and doubt, a whole week of torture, during which he fancied himself struck silly.  But he was getting over it, he had resumed his usual life, his resigned solitary struggle with his great picture, when one foggy morning, towards the end of October, he started and hastily set his palette aside.  There had been no knock, but he had just recognised the footfall coming up the stairs.  He opened the door and she walked in.  She had come at last.