for a Psyche. Have you got the address there?'

Thereupon Dubuche turned to a corner of the greyish wall on which the
addresses of several models were written in chalk, haphazard. The
women particularly left their cards in that way, in awkward, childish
handwriting. Zoe Piedefer, 7 Rue Campagne-Premiere, a big brunette, who
was getting rather too stout, had scrawled her sign manual right across
the names of little Flore Beauchamp, 32 Rue de Laval, and Judith Vaquez,
69 Rue du Rocher, a Jewess, both of whom were too thin.

'I say, have you got the address?' resumed Dubuche.

Then Claude flew into a passion. 'Don't pester me! I don't know and
don't care. You're a nuisance, worrying like that just when a fellow
wants to work.'

Sandoz had not said a word. Surprised at first, he had soon smiled. He
was gifted with more penetration than Dubuche, so he gave him a knowing
nod, and they then began to chaff. They begged Claude's pardon; the
moment he wanted to keep the young person for his personal use, they
would not ask him to lend her. Ha! ha! the scamp went hunting about for
pretty models. And where had he picked up that one?

More and more embarrassed by these remarks, Claude went on fidgetting.
'What a couple of idiots you are!' he exclaimed, 'If you only knew what
fools you are making of yourselves. That'll do. You really make me sorry
for both of you.'

His voice sounded so stern that they both became silent immediately,
while he, after once more scratching out the woman's head, drew it anew
and began to paint it in, following his sketch of Christine, but with a
feverish, unsteady touch which went at random.

'Just give me another ten minutes, will you?' he repeated. 'I will rough
in the shoulders to be ready for to-morrow, and then we'll go down.'

Sandoz and Dubuche, knowing that it was of no use to prevent him from
killing himself in this fashion, resigned themselves to the inevitable.
The latter lighted his pipe, and flung himself on the couch. He was the
only one of the three who smoked; the others had never taken kindly to
tobacco, always feeling qualmish after a cigar. And when Dubuche was
stretched on his back, his eyes turned towards the clouds of smoke he
raised, he began to talk about himself in an interminable monotonous
fashion. Ah! that confounded Paris, how one had to work one's fingers
to the bone in order to get on. He recalled the fifteen months
of apprenticeship he had spent with his master, t