In fact, for a long time that sphere of brutal art, that studio full of glaring pictures, had caused her a feeling of discomfort.  Wounded in all her feelings, full of repugnance, she could not get used to it all.  She had grown up full of affectionate admiration for a very different style of art—­her mother’s fine water-colours, those fans of dreamy delicacy, in which lilac-tinted couples floated about in bluish gardens—­and she quite failed to understand Claude’s work.  Even now she often amused herself by painting tiny girlish landscapes, two or three subjects repeated over and over again—­a lake with a ruin, a water-mill beating a stream, a chalet and some pine trees, white with snow.  And she felt surprised that an intelligent young fellow should paint in such an unreasonable manner, so ugly and so untruthful besides.  For she not only thought Claude’s realism monstrously ugly, but considered it beyond every permissible truth.  In fact, she thought at times that he must be mad.

One day Claude absolutely insisted upon seeing a small sketch-book which she had brought away from Clermont, and which she had spoken about.  After objecting for a long while, she brought it with her, flattered at heart and feeling very curious to know what he would say.  He turned over the leaves, smiling all the while, and as he did not speak, she was the first to ask: 

‘You think it very bad, don’t you?’

‘Not at all,’ he replied.  ‘It’s innocent.’

The reply hurt her, despite Claude’s indulgent tone, which aimed at making it amiable.

’Well, you see I had so few lessons from mamma.  I like painting to be well done, and pleasing.’

Thereupon he burst into frank laughter.

’Confess now that my painting makes you feel ill!  I have noticed it.  You purse your lips and open your eyes wide with fright.  Certainly it is not the style of painting for ladies, least of all for young girls.  But you’ll get used to it; it’s only a question of educating your eyes and you’ll end by seeing that what I am doing is very honest and healthy.’

Indeed, Christine slowly became used to it.  But, at first, artistic conviction had nothing to do with the change, especially as Claude, with his contempt for female opinion, did not take the trouble to indoctrinate her.  On the contrary, in her company he avoided conversing about art, as if he wished to retain for himself that passion of his life, apart from the new passion which was gradually taking possession of him.  Still, Christine glided into the habit of the thing, and became familiarised with it; she began to feel interested in those abominable pictures, on noticing the important place they held in the artist’s existence.  This was the first stage on the road to conversion; she felt greatly moved by his rageful eagerness to be up and doing, the whole-heartedness with which he devoted himself to his work.  Was it not very touching?  Was there not something