en he met Claude Lantier. The artist, hidden
in the folds of his greenish overcoat, spoke in a hollow voice full of
suppressed anger. He was in a passion with painting, declared that it
was a dog's trade, and swore that he would not take up a brush again as
long as he lived. That very afternoon he had thrust his foot through a
study which he had been making of the head of that hussy Cadine.

Claude was subject to these outbursts, the fruit of his inability to
execute the lasting, living works which he dreamed of. And at such times
life became an utter blank to him, and he wandered about the streets,
wrapped in the gloomiest thoughts, and waiting for the morning as for a
sort of resurrection. He used to say that he felt bright and cheerful in
the morning, and horribly miserable in the evening.[*] Each of his days
was a long effort ending in disappointment. Florent scarcely recognised
in him the careless night wanderer of the markets. They had already met
again at the pork shop, and Claude, who knew the fugitive's story, had
grasped his hand and told him that he was a sterling fellow. It was very
seldom, however, that the artist went to the Quenus'.

[*] Claude Lantier's struggle for fame is fully described in
M. Zola's novel, _L'Oeuvre_ ("His Masterpiece").
--Translator.

"Are you still at my aunt's?" he asked. "I can't imagine how you manage
to exist amidst all that cookery. The places reeks with the smell of
meat. When I've been there for an hour I feel as though I shouldn't want
anything to eat for another three days. I ought not to have gone there
this morning; it was that which made me make a mess of my work."

Then, after he and Florent had taken a few steps in silence, he resumed:

"Ah! the good people! They quite grieve me with their fine health. I had
thought of painting their portraits, but I've never been able to succeed
with such round faces, in which there is never a bone. Ah! You wouldn't
find my aunt Lisa kicking her foot through her pans! I was an idiot to
have destroyed Cadine's head! Now that I come to think of it, it wasn't
so very bad, perhaps, after all."

Then they began to talk about Aunt Lisa. Claude said that his mother[*]
had not seen anything of her for a long time, and he hinted that the
pork butcher's wife was somewhat ashamed of her sister having married
a common working man; moreover, she wasn't at all fond of unfortunate
folks. Speaking of himself, he told Florent that