rival one's friends in beastly language. He was, nevertheless,
recovering and beginning to answer, when Dubuche recognised him. The
latter turned crimson, for he detested that kind of adventure. He felt
ashamed of his friend, and rushed towards him, amidst the jeers, which
were now levelled at himself:

'What, is it you?' he gasped. 'I told you never to come in. Just wait
for me a minute in the yard.'

At that moment, Claude, who was stepping back, narrowly escaped being
knocked down by a little hand-truck which two big full-bearded fellows
brought up at a gallop. It was from this truck that the night of heavy
toil derived its name: and for the last week the students who had got
behindhand with their work, through taking up petty paid jobs outside,
had been repeating the cry, 'Oh! I'm in the truck and no mistake.' The
moment the vehicle appeared, a clamour arose. It was a quarter to nine
o'clock, there was barely time to reach the School of Arts. However, a
helter-skelter rush emptied the studio; each brought out his chases,
amidst a general jostling; those who obstinately wished to give their
designs a last finishing touch were knocked about and carried away
with their comrades. In less than five minutes every frame was piled
upon the truck, and the two bearded fellows, the most recent additions
to the studio, harnessed themselves to it like cattle and drew it
along with all their strength, the others vociferating, and pushing
from behind. It was like the rush of a sluice; the three courtyards
were crossed amidst a torrential crash, and the street was invaded,
flooded by the howling throng.

Claude, nevertheless, had set up running by the side of Dubuche, who
came at the fag-end, very vexed at not having had another quarter of