stomach empty. And as the cuckoo clock struck five, he snatched at his
crust of bread and devoured it. Thoroughly worn out, he broke it with
trembling fingers, and scarcely chewed it, again standing before his
picture, pursued by his passion to such a degree as to be unconscious
even that he was eating.

'Five o'clock,' said Sandoz, as he stretched himself, with his arms
upraised. 'Let's go and have dinner. Ah! here comes Dubuche, just in
time.'

There was a knock at the door, and Dubuche came in. He was a stout
young fellow, dark, with regular but heavy features, close-cropped
hair, and moustaches already full-blown. He shook hands with both his
friends, and stopped before the picture, looking nonplussed. In
reality that harum-scarum style of painting upset him, such was the
even balance of his nature, such his reverence as a steady student for
the established formulas of art; and it was only his feeling of
friendship which, as a rule, prevented him from criticising. But this
time his whole being revolted visibly.

'Well, what's the matter? Doesn't it suit you?' asked Sandoz, who was
watching him.

'Yes, oh yes, it's very well painted--but--'

'Well, spit it out. What is it that ruffles you?'

'Not much, only the gentleman is fully dressed, and the women are not.
People have never seen anything like that before.'