‘Shall you come home to-night?’

‘Very late.  Have your dinner and go to bed.  Good-bye.’

Then Chaine remained alone with Mathilde in the damp shop, amidst the heaps of clay and the puddles of water, while the chalky light from the whitened windows glared crudely over all the wretched untidiness.

Meantime the four others, Claude and Mahoudeau, Jory and Sandoz, strolled along, seeming to take up the whole width of the Boulevard des Invalides.  It was the usual thing, the band was gradually increased by the accession of comrades picked up on the way, and then came the wild march of a horde upon the war-path.  With the bold assurance of their twenty summers, these young fellows took possession of the foot pavement.  The moment they were together trumpets seemed to sound in advance of them; they seized upon Paris and quietly dropped it into their pockets.  There was no longer the slightest doubt about their victory; they freely displayed their threadbare coats and old shoes, like destined conquerors of to-morrow who disdained bagatelles, and had only to take the trouble to become the masters of all the luxury surrounding them.  And all this was attended by huge contempt for everything that was not art—­contempt for fortune, contempt for the world at large, and, above all, contempt for politics.  What was the good of all such rubbish?  Only a lot of incapables meddled with it.  A warped view of things, magnificent in its very injustice, exalted them; an intentional ignorance of the necessities of social life, the crazy dream of having none but artists upon earth.  They seemed very stupid at times, but, all the same, their passion made them strong and brave.

Claude became excited.  Faith in himself revived amidst the glow of common hopes.  His worry of the morning had only left a vague numbness behind, and he now once more began to discuss his picture with Sandoz and Mahoudeau, swearing, it is true, that he would destroy it the next day.  Jory, who was very short-sighted, stared at all the elderly ladies he met, and aired his theories on artistic work.  A man ought to give his full measure at once in the first spurt of inspiration; as for himself, he never corrected anything.  And, still discussing, the four friends went on down the boulevard, which, with its comparative solitude, and its endless rows of fine trees, seemed to have been expressly designed as an arena for their disputations.  When they reached the Esplanade, the wrangling became so violent that they stopped in the middle of that large open space.  Beside himself, Claude called Jory a numskull; was it not better to destroy one’s work than to launch a mediocre performance upon the world?  Truckling to trade was really disgusting.  Mahoudeau and Sandoz, on their side, shouted both together at the same time.  Some passers-by, feeling uneasy, turned round to look, and at last gathered round these furious young fellows, who seemed bent on swallowing