words and gestures which
he had not shown for a month past. At intervals, however, his agitation
subsided, and he remained silent, with his eyes wide open, gazing
vacantly into space at something which he fancied was calling him.

'Ah! old man,' he said to Sandoz, 'I finished reading your book last
night. It's deucedly clever; you have shut up their mouths this time!'

They both talked standing in front of the chimney-piece, where some logs
were blazing. Sandoz had indeed just published a new novel, and although
his critics did not disarm, there was at last that stir of success which
establishes a man's reputation despite the persistent attacks of his
adversaries. Besides, he had no illusions; he knew very well that the
battle, even if it were won, would begin again at each fresh book he
wrote. The great work of his life was advancing, that series of novels
which he launched forth in volumes one after another in stubborn,
regular fashion, marching towards the goal he had selected without
letting anything, obstacles, insults, or fatigue, conquer him.

'It's true,' he gaily replied, 'they are weakening this time. There's
even one who has been foolish enough to admit that I'm an honest man!
See how everything degenerates! But they'll make up for it, never fear!
I know some of them whose nuts are too much unlike my own to let
them accept my literary formula, my boldness of language, and my
physiological characters acting under the influence of circumstances;
and I refer to brother writers who possess self-respect; I leave the
fools and the scoundrels on one side. For a man to be able to work on
pluckily, it is best for him to expect neither good faith nor justice.
To be in the right he must begin by dying.'

At this Claude's eyes abruptly turned towards a corner of the
drawing-room, as if to pierce the wall and go far away yonder, whither
something had summoned him. Then they became hazy and returned from
their journey, whilst he exclaimed:

'Oh! you speak for yourself! I should do wrong to kick the bucket. No
matter, your book sent me into a deuced fever. I wanted to paint to-day,
but I couldn't. Ah! it's lucky that I can't get jealous of you, else you
would make me too unhappy.'

However, the door had opened, and Mathilde came in, followed by Jory.
She was richly attired in a tunic of nasturtium-hued velvet and a skirt
of straw-coloured satin, with diamonds in her ears and a large bouquet
of roses on her bosom. Wha