uch as to guess
at the least of his intentions. Everything was flung into the same
slop-pail of abuse: his studies of physiological man; the important part
he assigned to circumstances and surroundings; his allusions to nature,
ever and ever creating; in short, life--entire, universal life--existent
through all the animal world without there really being either high
or low, beauty or ugliness; he was insulted, too, for his boldness of
language for the conviction he expressed that all things ought to be
said, that there are abominable expressions which become necessary,
like branding irons, and that a language emerges enriched from such
strength-giving baths. He easily granted their anger, but he would at
least have liked them to do him the honour of understanding him and
getting angry at his audacity, not at the idiotic, filthy designs of
which he was accused.

'Really,' he continued, 'I believe that the world still contains more
idiots than downright spiteful people. They are enraged with me on
account of the form I give to my productions, the written sentences, the
similes, the very life of my style. Yes, the middle-classes fairly split
with hatred of literature!'

Then he became silent, having grown sad.

'Never mind,' said Claude, after an interval, 'you are happy, you at
least work, you produce--'

Sandoz had risen from his seat with a gesture of sudden pain.

'True, I work. I work out my books to their last pages--But if you only
knew, if I told you amidst what discouragement, amidst what torture!
Won't those idiots take it into their heads to accuse me of pride! I,
whom the imperfection of my work pursues even in my sleep--I, who
never look over the pages of the day before, lest I should find them so
execrable that I might afterwards lack the courage to continue. Oh, I
work, no doubt, I work! I go on working, as I go on living, because I
am born to it, but I am none the gayer on account of it. I am never
satisfied; there is always a great collapse at the end.'

He was interrupted by a loud exclamation outside, and Jory appeared,
delighted with life, and relating that he had just touched up an old
article in order to have the evening to himself. Almost immediately
afterwards Gagniere and Mahoudeau, who had met at the door, came in
conversing together. The former, who had been absorbed for some months
in a theory of colours, was explaining his system to the other.

'I paint my shade in,' he continued, as if