he now contented himself with going to the
Boutin studio, a free studio, kept by a former model, in the Rue de la
Huchette. When he had paid his twenty francs he was put in front of as
many men and women as he cared for, and set about his work with a will,
never thinking of eating or drinking, but struggling unrestingly with
nature, mad almost with the excitement of work, by the side of a pack
of dandies who accused him of ignorant laziness, and arrogantly prated
about their 'studies,' because they copied noses and mouths, under the
eye of a master.

'Listen to this, old man: when one of those whipper-snappers can build
up a torso like that one over yonder, he may come up and tell me, and
we'll have a talk together.'

With the end of his brush he pointed to a study of the nude, suspended
from the wall near the door. It was really magnificent, full of masterly
breadth of colouring. By its side were some other admirable bits, a
girl's feet exquisite in their delicate truthfulness, and a woman's
trunk with quivering satin-like skin. In his rare moments of content
he felt proud of those few studies, the only ones which satisfied him,
which, as it were, foretold a great painter, admirably gifted, but
hampered by sudden and inexplicable fits of impotency.

Dealing sabre-like strokes at the velveteen jacket, he continued lashing
himself into excitement with his uncompromising theories which respected
nobody:

'They are all so many daubers of penny prints, who have stolen their
reputations; a set of idiots or knaves on their knees before public
imbecility! Not one among them dares to give the philistines a slap in
the face. And, while we are about it, you know that old Ingres turns me
sick with his glairy painting. Nevertheless, he's a brick, and a plucky
fellow, and I take off my hat to him, for he did not care a curse for
anybody, and he used to draw like the very devil. He ended by making the
idiots, who nowadays believe they understand him, swallow that drawing
of his. After him there are only two worth speaking of, Delacroix and
Courbet. The others are only numskulls. Oh, that old romantic lion, the
carriage of him! He was a decorator who knew how to make the colours
blaze. And what a grasp he had! He would have covered every wall in
Paris if they had let him; his palette boiled, and boiled over. I know
very well that it was only so much phantasmagoria. Never mind, I like it
for all that, as it was needed to set the Sc