Christine, without another glance, was already descending the steep
ladder-like stairway whose steps creaked, when Claude turned abruptly
into his studio, closing the door with a bang, and shouting to
himself: 'Ah, those confounded women!'

He was furious--furious with himself, furious with everyone. Kicking
about the furniture, he continued to ease his feelings in a loud
voice. Was not he right in never allowing them to cross his threshold?
They only turned a fellow's head. What proof had he after all that
yonder chit with the innocent look, who had just gone, had not fooled
him most abominably? And he had been silly enough to believe in her
cock-and-bull stories! All his suspicions revived. No one would ever
make him swallow that fairy tale of the general's widow, the railway
accident, and especially the cabman. Did such things ever happen in
real life? Besides, that mouth of hers told a strange tale, and her
looks had been very singular just as she was going. Ah! if he could
only have understood why she had told him all those lies; but no, they
were profitless, inexplicable. It was art for art's sake. How she must
be laughing at him by this time.

He roughly folded up the screen and sent it flying into a corner. She
had no doubt left all in disorder. And when he found that everything
was in its proper place--basin, towel, and soap--he flew into a rage
because she had not made the bed. With a great deal of fuss he began
to make it himself, lifting the mattress in his arms, banging the
pillow about with his fists, and feeling oppressed by the pure scent
of youth that rose from everything. Then he had a good wash to cool
himself, and in the damp towel he found the same virgin fragrance,
which seemed to spread through the studio. Swearing the while, he
drank his chocolate from the saucepan, so excited, so eager to set to