The sculptor shrugged his shoulders amidst the general laughter.

But Claude did not hear.  He was now discussing architecture with Dubuche.  No doubt, that plan of a museum gallery which he exhibited wasn’t bad; only there was nothing new in it.  It was all so much patient marquetry of the school formulas.  Ought not all the arts to advance in one line of battle?  Ought not the evolution that was transforming literature, painting, even music itself, to renovate architecture as well?  If ever the architecture of a period was to have a style of its own, it was assuredly the architecture of the period they would soon be entering, a new period when they would find the ground freshly swept, ready for the rebuilding of everything.  Down with the Greek temples! there was no reason why they should continue to exist under our sky, amid our society! down with the Gothic cathedrals, since faith in legend was dead! down with the delicate colonnades, the lace-like work of the Renaissance—­that revival of the antique grafted on mediaevalism—­precious art-jewellery, no doubt, but in which democracy could not dwell.  And he demanded, he called with violent gestures for an architectural formula suited to democracy; such work in stone as would express its tenets; edifices where it would really be at home; something vast and strong, great and simple at the same time; the something that was already being indicated in the new railway stations and markets, whose ironwork displayed such solid elegance, but purified and raised to a standard of beauty, proclaiming the grandeur of the intellectual conquests of the age.

‘Ah! yes, ah! yes,’ repeated Dubuche, catching Claude’s enthusiasm; ’that’s what I want to accomplish, you’ll see some day.  Give me time to succeed, and when I’m my own master—­ah! when I’m my own master.’

Night was coming on apace, and Claude was growing more and more animated and passionate, displaying a fluency, an eloquence which his comrades had not known him to possess.  They all grew excited in listening to him, and ended by becoming noisily gay over the extraordinary witticisms he launched forth.  He himself, having returned to the subject of his picture, again discussed it with a deal of gaiety, caricaturing the crowd he had seen looking at it, and imitating the imbecile laughter.  Along the avenue, now of an ashy hue, one only saw the shadows of infrequent vehicles dart by.  The side-walk was quite black; an icy chill fell from the trees.  Nothing broke the stillness but the sound of song coming from a clump of verdure behind the cafe; there was some rehearsal at the Concert de l’Horloge, for one heard the sentimental voice of a girl trying a love-song.

‘Ah! how they amused me, the idiots!’ exclaimed Claude, in a last burst.  ’Do you know, I wouldn’t take a hundred thousand francs for my day’s pleasure!’

Then he relapsed into silence, thoroughly exhausted.  Nobody had any saliva left; silence reigned; they all shivered in the icy gust that swept by.  And they separated in a sort of bewilderment, shaking hands in a tired fashion.  Dubuche was going to dine out; Fagerolles had an appointment; in vain did Jory, Mahoudeau, and Gagniere try to drag Claude to Foucart’s, a twenty-five sous’ restaurant; Sandoz was already taking him away on his arm, feeling anxious at seeing him so excited.