r
nothing next spring! Well, Naudet, who had compelled Fagerolles to build
a house, and who furnished it for him as he would have furnished a place
for a hussy, wanted to get hold of his nick-nacks and hangings again.
But Fagerolles had borrowed money on them, so it seems. You can imagine
the state of affairs; the dealer accuses the artist of having spoilt his
game by exhibiting with the vanity of a giddy fool; while the painter
replies that he doesn't mean to be robbed any longer; and they'll end by
devouring each other--at least, I hope so.'

Gagniere raised his voice, the gentle but inexorable voice of a dreamer
just awakened.

'Fagerolles is done for. Besides, he never had any success.'

The others protested. Well, what about the hundred thousand francs'
worth of pictures he had sold a year, and his medals and his cross
of the Legion of Honour? But Gagniere, still obstinate, smiled with
a mysterious air, as if facts could not prevail against his inner
conviction. He wagged his head and, full of disdain, replied:

'Let me be! He never knew anything about chiaroscuro.'

Jory was about to defend the talent of Fagerolles, whom he considered to
be his own creation, when Henriette solicited a little attention for
the _raviolis_. There was a short slackening of the quarrel amid the
crystalline clinking of the glasses and the light clatter of the forks.
The table, laid with such fine symmetry, was already in confusion, and
seemed to sparkle still more amid the ardent fire of the quarrel. And
Sandoz, growing anxious, felt astonished. What was the matter with them
all that they attacked Fagerolles so harshly? Hadn't they all begun
together, and were they not all to reach the goal in the same victory?
For the first time, a feeling of uneasiness disturbed his dream of
eternity, that delight in his Thursdays, which he had pictured following
one upon another, all alike, all of them happy ones, into the far
distance of the future. But the feeling was as yet only skin deep, and
he laughingly exclaimed:

'Husband your strength, Claude, here are the hazel-hens. Eh! Claude,
where are you?'

Since silence had prevailed, Claude had relapsed into his dream, gazing
about him vacantly, and taking a second help of _raviolis_ without
knowing what he was about; Christine, who said nothing, but sat there
looking sad and charming, did not take her eyes off him. He started when
Sandoz spoke, and chose a leg from amid the bits of hazel-he