the ever-lasting smudges of the School of Arts, all that tobacco-juice
painting, cooked up according to certain given recipes? The day would
come when one carrot, originally rendered, would lead to a revolution.
It was because of this that he now contented himself with going to the
Boutin studio, a free studio, kept by a former model, in the Rue de la
Huchette. When he had paid his twenty francs he was put in front of as
many men and women as he cared for, and set about his work with a
will, never thinking of eating or drinking, but struggling unrestingly
with nature, mad almost with the excitement of work, by the side of a
pack of dandies who accused him of ignorant laziness, and arrogantly
prated about their 'studies,' because they copied noses and mouths,
under the eye of a master.

'Listen to this, old man: when one of those whipper-snappers can build
up a torso like that one over yonder, he may come up and tell me, and
we'll have a talk together.'

With the end of his brush he pointed to a study of the nude, suspended
from the wall near the door. It was really magnificent, full of
masterly breadth of colouring. By its side were some other admirable
bits, a girl's feet exquisite in their delicate truthfulness, and a
woman's trunk with quivering satin-like skin. In his rare moments of
content he felt proud of those few studies, the only ones which
satisfied him, which, as it were, foretold a great painter, admirably
gifted, but hampered by sudden and inexplicable fits of impotency.

Dealing sabre-like strokes at the velveteen jacket, he continued
lashing himself into excitement with his uncompromising theories which
respected nobody: