that he might have to support them in his turn.  He had given up the idea of competing for the Prix de Rome, feeling certain of being beaten in the effort, and anxious to earn his living.  And he was weary already; sick at scouring the town, at earning twenty-five sous an hour from ignorant architects, who treated him like a hodman.  What course should he adopt?  How was he to guess at the shortest route?  He might leave the School; he would get a lift from his master, the influential Dequersonniere, who liked him for his docility and diligence; only what a deal of trouble and uncertainty there would still be before him!  And he bitterly complained of the Government schools, where one slaved away for years, and which did not even provide a position for all those whom they cast upon the pavement.

Suddenly he stopped in the middle of the path.  The elder hedges were leading to an open plain, and La Richaudiere appeared amid its lofty trees.

‘Hold hard! of course,’ exclaimed Claude, ’I hadn’t thought about it —­you’re going to that shanty.  Oh! the baboons; there’s a lot of ugly mugs, if you like!’

Dubuche, looking vexed at this outburst of artistic feeling, protested stiffly.  ’All the same, Papa Margaillan, idiot as he seems to you, is a first-rate man of business.  You should see him in his building-yards, among the houses he runs up, as active as the very fiend, showing marvellous good management, and a wonderful scent as to the right streets to build and what materials to buy!  Besides, one does not earn millions without becoming a gentleman.  And then, too, it would be very silly of me not to be polite to a man who can be useful to me.’

While talking, he barred the narrow path, preventing his friend from advancing further—­no doubt from a fear of being compromised by being seen in his company, and in order to make him understand that they ought to separate there.

Claude was on the point of inquiring about their comrades in Paris, but he kept silent.  Not even a word was said respecting Christine, and he was reluctantly deciding to quit Dubuche, holding out his hand to take leave, when, in spite of himself, this question fell from his quivering lips: 

‘And is Sandoz all right?’

’Yes, he’s pretty well.  I seldom see him.  He spoke to me about you last month.  He is still grieved at your having shown us the door.’

‘But I didn’t show you the door,’ exclaimed Claude, beside himself.  ‘Come and see me, I beg of you.  I shall be so glad!’

’All right, then, we’ll come.  I’ll tell him to come, I give you my word—­good-bye, old man, good-bye; I’m in a hurry.’

And Dubuche went off towards La Richaudiere, whilst Claude watched his figure dwindle as he crossed the cultivated plain, until nothing remained but the shiny silk of his hat and the black spot of his coat.  The young man returned home slowly, his heart bursting with nameless sadness.  However, he said nothing about this meeting to Christine.