with green fringe. Well, my dear, when I saw this
creature throw off shawl and dress in the middle of the studio, and
begin to undress in the coolest and boldest manner, it had an effect
upon me I cannot describe. I choked with rage. I thumped at the
partition. Etienne came to me. I trembled; I was pale. He laughed at me,
gently re-assured me, and returned to his work. By this time the woman
was standing up, half-naked, her thick hair loosened and hanging down
her back in glossy heaviness. It was no longer the poor wretch of a
moment ago, but already almost a statue, notwithstanding her common and
listless air. My heart died within me. However, I said nothing. All at
once, I heard my husband cry: "The left leg; the left leg forward." And
as the model did not understand him at once, he went to her, and--Oh! I
could contain myself no longer. I knocked. He did not hear me. I knocked
again, furiously. This time he ran to me, frowning a little at being
disturbed in the heat of work. "Come, Armande, do be reasonable!"
Bathed in tears, I leant my head upon his shoulder, and sobbed out: "I
can't bear it, my dear, I can't; indeed, I can't!"

[Illustration: p159-170]

At this, without answering me, he went sharply into the studio, and made
a sign to that horror of a woman, who dressed herself and departed.

For several days, Etienne did not return to the studio. He remained
at home with me, would not go out, refused even to see his friends;
otherwise he was quite kind and gentle, but he had such a melancholy
air. Once I asked him timidly: "You are not working any more?" which
earned me this reply: "One can't work without a model." I had not the
courage to pursue the subject, for I felt how much I was to blame,
and that he had a right to be vexed with me. Nevertheless, by dint of
caresses and endearments, I cajoled him into returning to his studio and
trying to finish the statue--how do they say it? out of his head, from
imagination, in short, by mama's process. To me, this seemed quite
feasible; but it gave the poor fellow endless trouble. Every evening
he came in, with irritated nerves and more and more discouraged; almost
ill, indeed. To cheer him up, I used often to go and see him. I always
said: "It is charming." But, as a fact, the statue made no progress
whatever. I don't even know if he worked at it. When I arrived, I would
find him always smoking on his divan, or perhaps, rolling up pellets of
clay, which he angrily th