e jacket would be all there. He
had enough of him for the present. Both began to joke, for, as a rule,
Claude almost killed his models, only letting them go when they were
fainting, half dead with fatigue. He himself now very nigh dropped, his
legs bending under him, and his stomach empty. And as the cuckoo
clock struck five, he snatched at his crust of bread and devoured it.
Thoroughly worn out, he broke it with trembling fingers, and scarcely
chewed it, again standing before his picture, pursued by his passion to
such a degree as to be unconscious even that he was eating.

'Five o'clock,' said Sandoz, as he stretched himself, with his arms
upraised. 'Let's go and have dinner. Ah! here comes Dubuche, just in
time.'

There was a knock at the door, and Dubuche came in. He was a stout young
fellow, dark, with regular but heavy features, close-cropped hair, and
moustaches already full-blown. He shook hands with both his friends,
and stopped before the picture, looking nonplussed. In reality that
harum-scarum style of painting upset him, such was the even balance of
his nature, such his reverence as a steady student for the established
formulas of art; and it was only his feeling of friendship which, as
a rule, prevented him from criticising. But this time his whole being
revolted visibly.

'Well, what's the matter? Doesn't it suit you?' asked Sandoz, who was
watching him.

'Yes, oh yes, it's very well painted--but--'

'Well, spit it out. What is it that ruffles you?'

'Not much, only the gentleman is fully dressed, and the women are not.
People have never seen anything like that before.'

This sufficed to make both the others wild. Why, were there not a
hundred pictures in the Louvre composed in precisely the same way?
Hadn't all Paris and all the painters and tourists of the world seen
them? And besides, if people had never seen anything like it, they would
see it now. After all, they didn't care a fig for the public!

Not in the least disconcerted by these violent replies, Dubuche
repeated quietly: 'The public won't understand--the public will think it
indecorous--and so it is!'

'You wretched bourgeois philistine!' exclaimed Claude, exasperated.
'They are making a famous idiot of you at the School of Arts. You
weren't such a fool formerly.'

These were the current amenities of his two friends since Dubuche had
attended the School of Arts. He thereupon beat a retreat, rather afraid
of the turn the dispute wa