them laugh, others shrug their shoulders. When at last he reaches the top floor, he finds the door of the studio closed. He is about to knock, but hears a child crying and a woman scolding within.
"Be quiet; it will all be over in an hour and we will go away."
"Ah! Good Heavens! it is that frightful little boy whose portrait Eugène is painting. I can't show myself in this condition. What is to be done? An hour in a ragged shirt, and in such weather as this! If I only had a pipe!"
Arthur almost walks his legs off, tramping up and down. When he has exhausted this slightly monotonous pleasure he climbs out at a window, gets upon the roofs, and goes and warms himself at the smoke of a neighboring chimney. The hour passes wearily, but it is too late to go to see the uncle; there is another day wasted.
Arthur scarcely sleeps at all during the night so that he may be sure of awaking bright and early the next morning. He reflects upon the excuses that he will make to his uncle for not having been to see him for so long a time. At morning he awakes; the daylight enters his room, dark and rainy.
"Come, it is raining; I will not go out."
When one is warm and snug in bed the least thing seems to be a sufficient excuse for remaining there. And still Arthur is mistaken; it is not raining. His misapprehension is caused by a blue curtain that Eugène has hung before the window. There is nothing so depressing and so deceptive as light passing through a blue curtain; one should never have blue curtains.
