"A child?" The artist's brow is black as thunder. "She has wrecked a life, this child you speak of!"
He strides past the amazed innkeeper, up the narrow flight of stairs, and down the passage to his room.
Sitting on the edge of the huge curtained four-poster bed, he ponders on the events of the evening.
But his thoughts are not all of Claude. That girl—that girl with her pale face and her pale hair, and eyes the grey of a storm cloud before it breaks, she haunts him! Her soft murmuring voice has stolen into his brain; he hears it in the drip, drip of the rain on the sill outside.
Soon heavy feet are heard trooping up the stairs; doors are heard to bang; cheery voices wish each other good-night. Then gradually the sounds die away. They keep early hours at the "Loup Noir"; it is not yet ten o'clock.
Still Arnaud remains sitting on the edge of the bed; the dark plush canopy overhead repels him, he does not feel inclined for sleep. Jehane! what a picture she would make! He must paint her!
Obsessed by this idea, he unpacks a roll of canvas, spreads it on the tripod easel, and prepares crayons and charcoal; he will start the picture as soon as it is day. He will paint her as Circe, mocking at her grovelling herd of swine!
He creeps into bed and falls asleep.
Softly the rain patters against the window-pane.