‘No, thanks; I’ve too bad a headache—I’m going home to bed.’
And he obstinately clung to this excuse.
‘All right, old man,’ said Sandoz at last, with a smile. ‘One doesn’t see much of you nowadays. You live in mystery. Go on, old boy, I don’t want to be in your way.’
Claude restrained a gesture of impatience; and, letting his friend cross the bridge, he went his way along the quays by himself. He walked on with his arms hanging beside him, with his face turned towards the ground, seeing nothing, but taking long strides like a somnambulist who is guided by instinct. On the Quai de Bourbon, in front of his door, he looked up, full of surprise on seeing a cab waiting at the edge of the foot pavement, and barring his way. And it was with the same automatical step that he entered the doorkeeper’s room to take his key.
‘I have given it to that lady,’ called Madame Joseph from the back of the room. ‘She is upstairs.’
‘What lady?’ he asked in bewilderment.
‘That young person. Come, you know very well, the one who always comes.’
He had not the remotest idea whom she meant. Still, in his utter confusion of mind, he decided to go upstairs. The key was in the door, which he slowly opened and closed again.
For a moment Claude stood stock still. Darkness had invaded the studio; a violet dimness, a melancholy gloom fell from the large window, enveloping everything. He could no longer plainly distinguish either the floor, or the furniture, or the sketches; everything that was lying about seemed to be melting in the stagnant waters of a pool. But on the edge of the couch there loomed a dark figure, stiff with waiting, anxious and despairing amid the last gasp of daylight. It was Christine; he recognised her.
She held out her hands, and murmured in a low, halting voice: