disappeared as if by magic in his capacious green coat. Had it dropped
into a special pocket, or was it reposing on Papa Malgras' ample
chest? Not the slightest protuberance indicated its whereabouts.

Having accomplished his stroke of business, Papa Malgras abruptly
calmed down and went towards the door. But he suddenly changed his
mind and came back. 'Just listen, Lantier,' he said, in the honeyest
of tones; 'I want a lobster painted. You really owe me that much after
fleecing me. I'll bring you the lobster, you'll paint me a bit of
still life from it, and keep it for your pains. You can eat it with
your friends. It's settled, isn't it?'

At this proposal Sandoz and Dubuche, who had hitherto listened
inquisitively, burst into such loud laughter that the picture-dealer
himself became gay. Those confounded painters, they did themselves no
good, they simply starved. What would have become of the lazy beggars
if he, Papa Malgras, hadn't brought a leg of mutton now and then, or a
nice fresh plaice, or a lobster, with its garnish of parsley?

'You'll paint me my lobster, eh, Lantier? Much obliged.' And he
stationed himself anew before the large canvas, with his wonted smile
of mingled derision and admiration. And at last he went off,
repeating, 'Well, well, there's a machine.'

Claude wanted to take up his palette and brushes once more. But his
legs refused their service; his arms fell to his side, stiff, as if
pinioned there by some occult force. In the intense melancholy silence
that had followed the din of the dispute he staggered, distracted,
bereft of sight before his shapeless work.