they simply starved. What would have become of the lazy beggars if
he, Papa Malgras, hadn't brought a leg of mutton now and then, or a nice
fresh plaice, or a lobster, with its garnish of parsley?

'You'll paint me my lobster, eh, Lantier? Much obliged.' And he
stationed himself anew before the large canvas, with his wonted smile
of mingled derision and admiration. And at last he went off, repeating,
'Well, well, there's a machine.'

Claude wanted to take up his palette and brushes once more. But his legs
refused their service; his arms fell to his side, stiff, as if pinioned
there by some occult force. In the intense melancholy silence that had
followed the din of the dispute he staggered, distracted, bereft of
sight before his shapeless work.

'I'm done for, I'm done for,' he gasped. 'That brute has finished me
off!'

The clock had just struck seven; he had been at work for eight mortal
hours without tasting anything but a crust of bread, without taking a
moment's rest, ever on his legs, shaken by feverish excitement. And now
the sun was setting, shadows began to darken the studio, which in the
gloaming assumed a most melancholy aspect. When the light went down like
this on the crisis of a bad day's work, it seemed to Claude as if the
sun would never rise again, but had for ever carried life and all the
jubilant gaiety of colour away.

'Come,' implored Sandoz, with all the gentleness of brotherly
compassion. 'Come, there's a good fellow.'

Even Dubuche added, 'You'll see more clearly into it to-morrow. Come and
dine.'

For a moment Claude refused to surrender. He stood rooted to the spot,
deaf to their friendly voices, and fiercely obstinate.

What did he want to do then, since his tired fingers were no longer able
to grasp the brush? He did not know, but, however powerless he might be,
he was gnawed by a mad craving to go on working still and to create
in spite of everything. Even if he did nothing, he would at least stay
there, he would not vacate the spot. All at once, however, he made up
his mind, shaken the while as by a big sob. He clutched firmly hold
of his broadest palette-knife, and, with one deep, slow sweep, he
obliterated the woman's head and bosom. It was veritable murder, a
pounding away of human flesh; the whole disappeared in a murky, muddy
mash. By the side of the gentleman in the dark jacket, amidst the
bright verdure, where the two little wrestlers so lightly tinted were
disporting themse