murky, muddy mash. By the side of the gentleman in the dark jacket,
amidst the bright verdure, where the two little wrestlers so lightly
tinted were disporting themselves, there remained naught of the nude,
headless, breastless woman but a mutilated trunk, a vague cadaverous
stump, an indistinct, lifeless patch of visionary flesh.

Sandoz and Dubuche were already descending the stairs with a great
clatter, and Claude followed them, fleeing his work, in agony at
having to leave it thus scarred with a gaping gash.



III

THE beginning of the week proved disastrous to Claude. He had relapsed
into one of those periods of self-doubt that made him hate painting,
with the hatred of a lover betrayed, who overwhelms the faithless one
with insults although tortured by an uncontrollable desire to worship
her yet again. So on the Thursday, after three frightful days of
fruitless and solitary battling, he left home as early as eight in the
morning, banging his door violently, and feeling so disgusted with
himself that he swore he would never take up a brush again. When he
was unhinged by one of these attacks there was but one remedy, he had
to forget himself, and, to do so, it was needful that he should look
up some comrades with whom to quarrel, and, above all, walk about and
trudge across Paris, until the heat and odour of battle rising from
her paving-stones put heart into him again.

That day, like every other Thursday, he was to dine at Sandoz's, in
company with their friends. But what was he to do until the evening?