upon the floor, he fished it up with
his feet. 'All the same, I'm lucky. There are so many of us scouring
the town every day without getting the smallest job. The day before
yesterday I discovered an architect who works for a large contractor.
You can have no idea of such an ignoramus of an architect--a downright
numskull, incapable even of tracing a plan. He gives me twenty-five sous
an hour, and I set his houses straight for him. It came just in time,
too, for my mother sent me word that she was quite cleared out. Poor
mother, what a lot of money I have to refund her!'

As Dubuche was evidently talking to himself, chewing the cud of
his everyday thoughts--his constant thoughts of making a rapid
fortune--Sandoz did not even trouble to listen to him. He had opened the
little window, and seated himself on a level with the roof, for he felt
oppressed by the heat in the studio. But all at once he interrupted the
architect.

'I say, are you coming to dinner on Thursday? All the other fellows will
be there--Fagerolles, Mahoudeau, Jory, Gagniere.'

Every Thursday, quite a band met at Sandoz's: friends from Plassans and
others met in Paris--revolutionaries to a man, and all animated by the
same passionate love of art.

'Next Thursday? No, I think not,' answered Dubuche.

'I am obliged to go to a dance at a family's I know.'

'Where you expect to get hold of a dowry, I suppose?'

'Well, it wouldn't be such a bad spec.'

He shook the ashes from his pipe on to his left palm, and then,
suddenly raising his voice--'I almost forgot. I have had a letter from
Pouillaud.'

'You, too!--well, I think he's pretty well done for, Pouillaud. Another
good fellow gone wrong.'

'Why gone wrong? He'll succeed his father; he'll spend his money quietly
down there. He writes rationally enough. I always said he'd show us a
thing or two, in spite of all his practical jokes. Ah! that beast of a
Pouillaud.'

Sandoz, furious, was about to reply, when a despairing oath from
Claude stopped him. The latter had not opened his lips since he had
so obstinately resumed his work. To all appearance he had not even
listened.

'Curse it--I have failed again. Decidedly, I'm a brute, I shall never do
anything.' And in a fit of mad rage he wanted to rush at his picture and
dash his fist through it. His friends had to hold him back. Why, it was
simply childish to get into such a passion. Would matters be improved
when, to his mortal regret, he had des