somniferous 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 eager for another bite, had started on the massacre again.  Their voices, at first mere whispers, gradually grew louder, till at last they began to shout.

‘Oh! the man, I abandon the man to you,’ said Jory, who was speaking of Fagerolles.  ’He isn’t worth much.  And he out-generalled you, it’s true.  Ah! how he did get the better of you fellows, by breaking off from you and carving success for himself on your backs!  You were certainly not at all cute.’