'I'm done for, I'm done for,' he gasped. 'That brute has finished me
off!'

The clock had just struck seven; he had been at work for eight mortal
hours without tasting anything but a crust of bread, without taking a
moment's rest, ever on his legs, shaken by feverish excitement. And
now the sun was setting, shadows began to darken the studio, which in
the gloaming assumed a most melancholy aspect. When the light went
down like this on the crisis of a bad day's work, it seemed to Claude
as if the sun would never rise again, but had for ever carried life
and all the jubilant gaiety of colour away.

'Come,' implored Sandoz, with all the gentleness of brotherly
compassion. 'Come, there's a good fellow.'

Even Dubuche added, 'You'll see more clearly into it to-morrow. Come
and dine.'

For a moment Claude refused to surrender. He stood rooted to the spot,
deaf to their friendly voices, and fiercely obstinate.

What did he want to do then, since his tired fingers were no longer
able to grasp the brush? He did not know, but, however powerless he
might be, he was gnawed by a mad craving to go on working still and to
create in spite of everything. Even if he did nothing, he would at
least stay there, he would not vacate the spot. All at once, however,
he made up his mind, shaken the while as by a big sob. He clutched
firmly hold of his broadest palette-knife, and, with one deep, slow
sweep, he obliterated the woman's head and bosom. It was veritable
murder, a pounding away of human flesh; the whole disappeared in a