‘The devil!’ said Claude, ‘there’s a lump.’

The sculptor, delighted, gave a long pull at his pipe, and blew a cloud of smoke.

’Eh, isn’t it?  I am going to give them some flesh, and living flesh, too; not the bladders of lard that they turn out.’

‘It’s a woman bathing, isn’t it?’ asked Sandoz.

’No; I shall put some vine leaves around her head.  A Bacchante, you understand.’

At this Claude flew into a violent passion.

’A Bacchante?  Do you want to make fools of people?  Does such a thing as a Bacchante exist?  A vintaging girl, eh?  And quite modern, dash it all.  I know she’s nude, so let her be a peasant woman who has undressed.  And that must be properly conveyed, mind; people must realise that she lives.’

Mahoudeau, taken aback, listened, trembling.  He was afraid of Claude, and bowed to his ideal of strength and truth.  So he even improved upon the painter’s idea.

’Yes, yes, that’s what I meant to say—­a vintaging girl.  And you’ll see whether there isn’t a real touch of woman about her.’

At that moment Sandoz, who had been making the tour of the huge block of clay, exclaimed:  ‘Why, here’s that sneak of a Chaine.’

Behind the pile, indeed, sat Chaine, a burly fellow who was quietly painting away, copying the fireless rusty stove on a small canvas.  It could be told that he was a peasant by his heavy, deliberate manner and his bull-neck, tanned and hardened like leather.  His only noticeable feature was his forehead, displaying all the bumps of obstinacy; for his nose was so small as to be lost between his red cheeks, while a stiff beard hid his powerful jaws.  He came from Saint Firmin, a village about six miles from Plassans, where he had been a cow-boy, until he drew for the conscription; and his misfortunes dated from the enthusiasm that a gentleman of the neighbourhood had shown for the walking-stick handles which he carved out of roots with his knife.  From that moment, having become a rustic genius, an embryo great man for this local connoisseur, who happened to be a member of the museum committee, he had been helped by him, adulated and driven crazy with hopes; but he had successively failed in everything—­his studies and competitions—­thus missing the town’s purse.  Nevertheless, he had started for Paris, after worrying his father, a wretched peasant, into premature payment of his heritage, a thousand francs, on which he reckoned to live for a twelvemonth while awaiting the promised victory.  The thousand francs had lasted eighteen months.  Then, as he had only twenty francs left, he had taken up his quarters with his friend, Mahoudeau.  They both slept in the same bed, in the dark back shop; they both in turn cut slices from the same loaves of bread—­of which they bought sufficient for a fortnight at a time, so that it might get very hard, and that they might thus be able to eat but little of it.

‘I say, Chaine,’ continued Sandoz, ‘your stove is really very exact.’