him on his arm,
and they were approaching the Pont des Arts, he fell upon Sandoz and
Dubuche, who were coming down the steps of the bridge. It was impossible
to avoid them, they were almost face to face; besides, his friends must
have seen him, for they smiled. Claude, very pale, kept advancing, and
he thought it all up on seeing Dubuche take a step towards him; but
Sandoz was already holding the architect back, and leading him away.
They passed on with an indifferent air and disappeared into the
courtyard of the Louvre without as much as turning round. They had both
just recognised the original of the crayon sketch, which the painter hid
away with all the jealousy of a lover. Christine, who was chattering,
had noticed nothing. Claude, with his heart throbbing, answered her in
monosyllables, moved to tears, brimming over with gratitude to his old
chums for their discreet behaviour.

A few days later, however, he had another shock. He did not expect
Christine, and had therefore made an appointment with Sandoz. Then,
as she had run up to spend an hour--it was one of those surprises that
delighted them--they had just withdrawn the key, as usual, when
there came a familiar knock with the fist on the door. Claude at once
recognised the rap, and felt so upset at the mishap that he overturned a
chair. After that it was impossible to pretend to be out. But Christine
turned so pale, and implored him with such a wild gesture, that he
remained rooted to the spot, holding his breath. The knocks continued,
and a voice called, 'Claude, Claude!' He still remained quite still,
debating with himself, however, with ashen lips and downcast eyes. Deep
silence reigned, and then footsteps were heard, making the stairs creak
as they went down. Claude's breast heaved with intense sadness; he felt
it bursting with remorse at the sound of each retreating step, as if he
had denied the friendship of his whole youth.

However, one afternoon there came another knock, and Claude had only
just time to whisper despairingly, 'The key has been left in the door.'

In fact, Christine had forgotten to take it out. She became quite scared
and darted behind the screen, with her handkerchief over her mouth to
stifle the sound of her breathing.

The knocks became louder, there was a burst of laughter, and the painter
had to reply, 'Come in.'

He felt more uncomfortable still when he saw Jory, who gallantly ushered
in Irma Becot, whose acquaintance he had