himself to be waylaid at times by old
Porrette, and to accept a glass of white wine at the inn, and his glance
scoured the room as if, despite the season, he had been looking for some
comrades of yore, who had arrived there, perchance, that morning. He
lingered as if awaiting them; then, in despair at his solitude, he
returned home, stifling with all that was fermenting within him, ill at
having nobody to whom he might shout the thoughts which made his brain
almost burst.

However, the winter went by, and Claude had the consolation of being
able to paint some lovely snow scenes. A third year was beginning, when,
towards the close of May, an unexpected meeting filled him with emotion.
He had that morning climbed up to the plateau to find a subject, having
at last grown tired of the banks of the Seine; and at the bend of a
road he stopped short in amazement on seeing Dubuche, in a silk hat, and
carefully-buttoned frock coat, coming towards him, between the double
row of elder hedges.

'What! is it you?'

The architect stammered from sheer vexation:

'Yes, I am going to pay a visit. It's confoundedly idiotic in the
country, eh? But it can't be helped. There are certain things one's
obliged to do. And you live near here, eh? I knew--that is to say, I
didn't. I had been told something about it, but I thought it was on the
opposite side, farther down.'

Claude, very much moved at seeing him, helped him out of his difficulty.

'All right, all right, old man, there is no need to apologise. I am the
most guilty party. Ah! it's a long while since we saw one another! If
you knew what a thump my heart gave when I saw your nose appear from
behind the leaves!'

Then he took his arm and accompanied him, giggling with pleasure, while
the other, in his constant worry about his future, which always made him
talk about himself, at once began speaking of his prospects. He had just
become a first-class pupil at the School, after securing the regulation
'honourable mentions,' with infinite trouble. But his success left
him as perplexed as ever. His parents no longer sent him a penny, they
wailed about their poverty so much that he might have to support them
in his turn. He had given up the idea of competing for the Prix de Rome,
feeling certain of being beaten in the effort, and anxious to earn his
living. And he was weary already; sick at scouring the town, at earning
twenty-five sous an hour from ignorant architects, who treated hi