And he went on in mellow, long-winded phrases.  ’You’ll perhaps not believe me, Monsieur Lantier, but that sort of thing doesn’t sell at all—­not at all.  I’ve a set of rooms full of them.  I’m always afraid of smashing something when I turn round.  I can’t go on like that, honour bright; I shall have to go into liquidation, and I shall end my days in the hospital.  You know me, eh? my heart is bigger than my pocket, and there’s nothing I like better than to oblige young men of talent like yourself.  Oh, for the matter of that, you’ve got talent, and I keep on telling them so—­nay, shouting it to them—­but what’s the good?  They won’t nibble, they won’t nibble!’

He was trying the emotional dodge; then, with the spirit of a man about to do something rash:  ’Well, it sha’n’t be said that I came in to waste your time.  What do you want for that rough sketch?’

Claude, still irritated, was painting nervously.  He dryly answered, without even turning his head:  ‘Twenty francs.’

’Nonsense; twenty francs! you must be mad.  You sold me the others ten francs a-piece—­and to-day I won’t give a copper more than eight francs.’

As a rule the painter closed with him at once, ashamed and humbled at this miserable chaffering, glad also to get a little money now and then.  But this time he was obstinate, and took to insulting the picture-dealer, who, giving tit for tat, all at once dropped the formal ‘you’ to assume the glib ‘thou,’ denied his talent, overwhelmed him with invective, and taxed him with ingratitude.  Meanwhile, however, he had taken from his pocket three successive five-franc pieces, which, as if playing at chuck-farthing, he flung from a distance upon the table, where they rattled among the crockery.

’One, two, three—­not one more, dost hear? for there is already one too many, and I’ll take care to get it back; I’ll deduct it from something else of thine, as I live.  Fifteen francs for that!  Thou art wrong, my lad, and thou’lt be sorry for this dirty trick.’

Quite exhausted, Claude let him take down the little canvas, which disappeared as if by magic in his capacious green coat.  Had it dropped into a special pocket, or was it reposing on Papa Malgras’ ample chest?  Not the slightest protuberance indicated its whereabouts.

Having accomplished his stroke of business, Papa Malgras abruptly calmed down and went towards the door.  But he suddenly changed his mind and came back.  ‘Just listen, Lantier,’ he said, in the honeyest of tones; ’I want a lobster painted.  You really owe me that much after fleecing me.  I’ll bring you the lobster, you’ll paint me a bit of still life from it, and keep it for your pains.  You can eat it with your friends.  It’s settled, isn’t it?’

At this proposal Sandoz and Dubuche, who had hitherto listened inquisitively, burst into such loud laughter that the picture-dealer himself became gay.  Those confounded painters, they did themselves no good, they simply starved.  What would have become of the lazy beggars if he, Papa Malgras, hadn’t brought a leg of mutton now and then, or a nice fresh plaice, or a lobster, with its garnish of parsley?