he celebrated
Dequersonniere, a former grand-prize man, now architect of the Civil
Branch of Public Works, an officer of the Legion of Honour and a member
of the Institute, whose chief architectural performance, the church of
St. Mathieu, was a cross between a pastry-cook's mould and a clock in
the so-called First Empire style. A good sort of fellow, after all, was
this Dequersonniere whom Dubuche chaffed, while inwardly sharing
his reverence for the old classical formulas. However, but for his
fellow-pupils, the young man would not have learnt much at the studio in
the Rue du Four, for the master only paid a running visit to the place
some three times a week. A set of ferocious brutes, were those comrades
of his, who had made his life jolly hard in the beginning, but who, at
least, had taught him how to prepare a surface, outline, and wash in
a plan. And how often had he had to content himself with a cup of
chocolate and a roll for dejeuner in order to pay the necessary
five-and-twenty francs to the superintendent! And the sheets of paper he
had laboriously smudged, and the hours he had spent in poring over
books before he had dared to present himself at the School! And he had
narrowly escaped being plucked in spite of all his assiduous endeavours.
He lacked imagination, and the drawings he submitted, a caryatide and
a summer dining-room, both extremely mediocre performances, had classed
him at the bottom of the list. Fortunately, he had made up for this
in his oral examination with his logarithms, geometry, and history of
architecture, for he was very strong in the scientific parts. Now that
he was attending the School as a second-class student, he had to toil
and moil in order to secure a first-class diploma. It was a dog's life,
there was no end to it, said he.

He stretched his legs apart, high upon the cushions, and smoked
vigorously and regularly.

'What with their courses of perspective, of descriptive geometry, of
stereotomy, of building, and of the history of art--ah! upon my word,
they do make one blacken paper with notes. And every month there is a
competitive examination in architecture, sometimes a simple sketch,
at others a complete design. There's no time for pleasure if a fellow
wishes to pass his examinations and secure the necessary honourable
mentions, especially if, besides all that, he has to find time to earn
his bread. As for myself, it's almost killing me.'

One of the cushions having slipped