rous satiety which at times had
saddened their old gatherings; at present there was real ferocity in the
struggle, a longing to destroy one another. The tapers of the hanging
lamp flared up, the painted flowers of the earthenware on the walls
bloomed, the table seemed to have caught fire amid the upsetting of its
symmetrical arrangements and the violence of the talk, that demolishing
onslaught of chatter which had filled them with fever for a couple of
hours past.

And amid the racket, when Henriette made up her mind to rise so as to
silence them, Claude at length remarked:

'Ah! if I only had the Hotel de Ville work, and if I could! It used to
be my dream to cover all the walls of Paris!'

They returned to the drawing-room, where the little chandelier and the
bracket-candelabra had just been lighted. It seemed almost cold there in
comparison with the kind of hot-house which had just been left; and
for a moment the coffee calmed the guests. Nobody beyond Fagerolles was
expected. The house was not an open one by any means, the Sandozes
did not recruit literary dependents or muzzle the press by dint of
invitations. The wife detested society, and the husband said with a
laugh that he needed ten years to take a liking to anybody, and then he
must like him always. But was not that real happiness, seldom realised?
A few sound friendships and a nook full of family affection. No
music was ever played there, and nobody had ever read a page of his
composition aloud.

On that particular Thursday the evening seemed a long one, on account
of the persistent irritation of the men. The ladies had begun to chat
before the smouldering fire; and when the servant, after clearing the
table, reopened the door of the dining-room, they were left alone, the
men repairing to the adjoining apartment to smoke and sip some beer.

Sandoz and Claude, who were not smokers, soon returned, however, and sat
down, side by side, on a sofa near the doorway. The former, who was glad
to see his old friend excited and talkative, recalled the memories
of Plassans apropos of a bit of news he had learnt the previous day.
Pouillaud, the old jester of their dormitory, who had become so grave
a lawyer, was now in trouble over some adventure with a woman. Ah! that
brute of a Pouillaud! But Claude did not answer, for, having heard his
name mentioned in the dining-room, he listened attentively, trying to
understand.

Jory, Mahoudeau, and Gagniere, unsatiated and