eeing his old chum he uttered
a joyous exclamation and shook his hand vigorously. Then he approached
Christine, and kissed little Jacques, who had once more thrown off the
bedclothes.

'How is he?'

'Just the same.'

'To be sure, to be sure; he is growing too fast. A few days' rest will
set him all right. I told you not to be uneasy.'

And Claude thereupon sat down beside Sandoz on the couch. They both took
their ease, leaning back, with their eyes surveying the picture; while
Christine, seated by the bed, looked at nothing, and seemingly thought
of nothing, in the everlasting desolation of her heart. Night was slowly
coming on, the vivid light from the window paled already, losing its
sheen amidst the slowly-falling crepuscular dimness.

'So it's settled; your wife told me that you were going to send it in.'

'Yes.'

'You are right; you had better have done with it once for all. Oh, there
are some magnificent bits in it. The quay in perspective to the left,
the man who shoulders that sack below. But--'

He hesitated, then finally took the bull by the horns.

'But, it's odd that you have persisted in leaving those women nude. It
isn't logical, I assure you; and, besides, you promised me you would
dress them--don't you remember? You have set your heart upon them very
much then?'

'Yes.'

Claude answered curtly, with the obstinacy of one mastered by a fixed
idea and unwilling to give any explanations. Then he crossed his arms
behind his head, and began talking of other things, without, however,
taking his eyes off his picture, over which the twilight began to cast a
slight shadow.

'Do you know where I have just come from?' he asked. 'I have been to
Courajod's. You know, the great landscape painter, whose "Pond of Gagny"
is at the Luxembourg. You remember, I thought he was dead, and we were
told that he lived hereabouts, on the other side of the hill, in the Rue
de l'Abreuvoir. Well, old boy, he worried me, did Courajod. While taking
a breath of air now and then up there, I discovered his shanty, and I
could no longer pass in front of it without wanting to go inside. Just
think, a master, a man who invented our modern landscape school, and who
lives there, unknown, done for, like a mole in its hole! You can have no
idea of the street or the caboose: a village street, full of fowls, and
bordered by grassy banks; and a caboose like a child's toy, with tiny
windows, a tiny door, a tiny garden. Oh! the garden-