After shaking off the water, Claude went up the deep archway entrance,
to a courtyard, where the light was quite greenish, and where there
was a dank, musty smell, like that at the bottom of a tank. There was
an overhanging roofing of glass and iron at the foot of the staircase,
which was a wide one, with a wrought-iron railing, eaten with rust. As
the painter passed the warehouse on the first floor, he glanced
through a glass door and noticed M. Fagerolles examining some
patterns. Wishing to be polite, he entered, in spite of the artistic
disgust he felt for all that zinc, coloured to imitate bronze, and
having all the repulsive mendacious prettiness of spurious art.

'Good morning, monsieur. Is Henri still at home?'

The manufacturer, a stout, sallow-looking man, drew himself straight
amidst all his nosegay vases and cruets and statuettes. He had in his
hand a new model of a thermometer, formed of a juggling girl who
crouched and balanced the glass tube on her nose.

'Henri did not come in to lunch,' he answered drily.

This cool reception upset Claude. 'Ah! he did not come back; I beg
pardon for having disturbed you, then. Good-day, monsieur.'

'Good-day.'

Once more outside, Claude began to swear to himself. His ill-luck was
complete, Fagerolles escaped him also. He even felt vexed with himself
for having gone there, and having taken an interest in that
picturesque old street; he was infuriated by the romantic gangrene