One afternoon he quite upset her by one of those bursts of anger which he found it impossible to control, even in her presence.  Everything had gone wrong that week; he talked of scraping his canvas again, and he paced up and down, beside himself, and kicking the furniture about.  Then all of a sudden he caught her by the shoulders, and made her sit down on the couch.

‘I beg of you, do me this favour, or it’ll kill me, I swear it will.’

She did not understand him.

‘What—­what is it you want?’

Then as soon as she saw him take up his brushes, she added, without heeding what she said, ‘Ah, yes!  Why did not you ask me before?’

And of her own accord she threw herself back on a cushion and slipped her arm under her neck.  But surprise and confusion at having yielded so quickly made her grave, for she did not know that she was prepared for this kind of thing; indeed, she could have sworn that she would never serve him as a model again.  Her compliance already filled her with remorse, as if she were lending herself to something wrong by letting him impart her own countenance to that big creature, lying refulgent under the sun.

However, in two sittings, Claude worked in the head all right.  He exulted with delight, and exclaimed that it was the best bit of painting he had ever done; and he was right, never had he thrown such a play of real light over such a life-like face.  Happy at seeing him so pleased, Christine also became gay, going as far as to express approval of her head, which, though not extremely like her, had a wonderful expression.  They stood for a long while before the picture, blinking at it, and drawing back as far as the wall.

‘And now,’ he said at last, ’I’ll finish her off with a model.  Ah! so I’ve got her at last.’

In a burst of childish glee, he took the girl round the waist, and they performed ‘a triumphant war dance,’ as he called it.  She laughed very heartily, fond of romping as she was, and no longer feeling aught of her scruples and discomfort.

But the very next week Claude became gloomy again.  He had chosen Zoe Piedefer as a model, but she did not satisfy him.  Christine’s delicate head, as he expressed it, did not set well on the other’s shoulders.  He, nevertheless, persisted, scratched out, began anew, and worked so hard that he lived in a constant state of fever.  Towards the middle of January, seized with despair, he abandoned his picture and turned it against the wall, swearing that he would not finish it.  But a fortnight later, he began to work at it again with another model, and then found himself obliged to change the whole tone of it.  Thus matters got still worse; so he sent for Zoe again; became altogether at sea, and quite ill with uncertainty and anguish.  And the pity of it was, that the central figure alone worried him, for he was well satisfied with the rest of the painting, the trees of the background, the two little women and the gentleman in the velvet coat, all finished and vigorous.  February was drawing to a close; he had only a few days left to send his picture to the Salon; it was quite a disaster.