wine shop, whose sign 'The Dog of Montargis,' inspired him with
interest. Some stonemasons, in their working blouses, bespattered with
mortar, were there at table, and, like them, and with them, he ate his
eight sous' 'ordinary'--some beef broth in a bowl, in which he soaked
some bread, followed by a slice of boiled soup-beef, garnished with
haricot beans, and served up on a plate damp with dish-water. However,
it was still too good, he thought, for a brute unable to earn his
bread. Whenever his work miscarried, he undervalued himself, ranked
himself lower than a common labourer, whose sinewy arms could at least
perform their appointed task. For an hour he lingered in the tavern
brutifying himself by listening to the conversation at the tables
around him. Once outside he slowly resumed his walk in haphazard
fashion.

When he got to the Place de l'Hotel de Ville, however, a fresh idea
made him quicken his pace. Why had he not thought of Fagerolles?
Fagerolles was a nice fellow, gay, and by no means a fool, although he
studied at the School of Arts. One could talk with him, even when he
defended bad painting. If he had lunched at his father's, in the Rue
Vieille-du-Temple, he must certainly still be there.

On entering the narrow street, Claude felt a sensation of refreshing
coolness come over him. In the sun it had grown very warm, and
moisture rose from the pavement, which, however bright the sky,
remained damp and greasy beneath the constant tramping of the
pedestrians. Every minute, when a push obliged Claude to leave the
footwalk, he found himself in danger of being knocked down by trucks
or vans. Still the street amused him, with its straggling houses out
of line, their flat frontages chequered with signboards up to the very
eaves, and pierced with small windows, whence came the hum of every