abundance that he overlooked himself.  Fagerolles himself, gibing Parisian though he might be, believed in the necessity of forming an army; while even Jory, although he had a coarser appetite, with a deal of the provincial still about him, displayed much useful comradeship, catching various artistic phrases as they fell from his companions’ lips, and already preparing in his mind the articles which would herald the advent of the band and make them known.  And Mahoudeau purposely exaggerated his intentional roughness, and clasped his hands like an ogre kneading human flesh; while Gagniere, in ecstasy, as if freed from the everlasting greyishness of his art, sought to refine sensation to the utmost limits of intelligence; and Dubuche, with his matter-of-fact convictions, threw in but a word here and there; words, however, which were like club-blows in the very midst of the fray.  Then Sandoz, happy and smiling at seeing them so united, ’all in one shirt,’ as he put it, opened another bottle of beer.  He would have emptied every one in the house.

‘Eh?’ he cried, ’we’re agreed, let’s stick to it.  It’s really pleasant to come to an understanding among fellows who have something in their nuts, so may the thunderbolts of heaven sweep all idiots away!’

At that same moment a ring at the bell stupefied him.  Amidst the sudden silence of the others, he inquired—­’Who, to the deuce, can that be—­at eleven o’clock?’

He ran to open the door, and they heard him utter a cry of delight.  He was already coming back again, throwing the door wide open as he said —­’Ah! it’s very kind indeed to think of us and surprise us like this!  Bongrand, gentlemen.’

The great painter, whom the master of the house announced in this respectfully familiar way, entered, holding out both hands.  They all eagerly rose, full of emotion, delighted with that manly, cordial handshake so willingly bestowed.  Bongrand was then forty-five years old, stout, and with a very expressive face and long grey hair.  He had recently become a member of the Institute, and wore the rosette of an officer of the Legion of Honour in the top button-hole of his unpretentious alpaca jacket.  He was fond of young people; he liked nothing so much as to drop in from time to time and smoke a pipe among these beginners, whose enthusiasm warmed his heart.

‘I am going to make the tea,’ exclaimed Sandoz.

When he came back from the kitchen, carrying the teapot and cups, he found Bongrand installed astride a chair, smoking his short cutty, amidst the din which had again arisen.  Bongrand himself was holding forth in a stentorian voice.  The grandson of a farmer of the Beauce region, the son of a man risen to the middle classes, with peasant blood in his veins, indebted for his culture to a mother of very artistic tastes, he was rich, had no need to sell his pictures, and retained many tastes and opinions of Bohemian life.

’The hanging committee?  Well, I’d sooner hang myself than belong to it!’ said he, with sweeping gestures.  ’Am I an executioner to kick poor devils, who often have to earn their bread, out of doors?’