erald the advent of the band and
make them known. And Mahoudeau purposely exaggerated his intentional
roughness, and clasped his hands like an ogre kneading human flesh;
while Gagniere, in ecstasy, as if freed from the everlasting greyishness
of his art, sought to refine sensation to the utmost limits of
intelligence; and Dubuche, with his matter-of-fact convictions, threw in
but a word here and there; words, however, which were like club-blows
in the very midst of the fray. Then Sandoz, happy and smiling at seeing
them so united, 'all in one shirt,' as he put it, opened another bottle
of beer. He would have emptied every one in the house.

'Eh?' he cried, 'we're agreed, let's stick to it. It's really pleasant
to come to an understanding among fellows who have something in their
nuts, so may the thunderbolts of heaven sweep all idiots away!'

At that same moment a ring at the bell stupefied him. Amidst the sudden
silence of the others, he inquired--'Who, to the deuce, can that be--at
eleven o'clock?'

He ran to open the door, and they heard him utter a cry of delight.
He was already coming back again, throwing the door wide open as he
said--'Ah! it's very kind indeed to think of us and surprise us like
this! Bongrand, gentlemen.'

The great painter, whom the master of the house announced in this
respectfully familiar way, entered, holding out both hands. They all
eagerly rose, full of emotion, delighted with that manly, cordial
handshake so willingly bestowed. Bongrand was then forty-five years
old, stout, and with a very expressive face and long grey hair. He had
recently become a member of the Institute, and wore the rosette of
an officer of the Legion of Honour in the top button-hole of his
unpretentious alpaca jacket. He was fond of young people; he liked
nothing so much as to drop in from time to time and smoke a pipe among
these beginners, whose enthusiasm warmed his heart.

'I am going to make the tea,' exclaimed Sandoz.

When he came back from the kitchen, carrying the teapot and cups, he
found Bongrand installed astride a chair, smoking his short cutty,
amidst the din which had again arisen. Bongrand himself was holding
forth in a stentorian voice. The grandson of a farmer of the Beauce
region, the son of a man risen to the middle classes, with peasant blood
in his veins, indebted for his culture to a mother of very artistic
tastes, he was rich, had no need to sell his pictures, and retained many
tastes