the whole neighbourhood, and that he was a source of discomfort to the
Quenus--a spurious cousin of far too compromising appearance. These
reflections made him very sad; not, indeed, that they had noticed the
slightest harshness on the part of his brother or Lisa: it was their
very kindness, rather, that was troubling him, and he accused himself of
a lack of delicacy in quartering himself upon them. He was beginning to
doubt the propriety of his conduct. The recollection of the conversation
in the shop during the afternoon caused him a vague disquietude. The
odour of the viands on Lisa's counter seemed to penetrate him; he felt
himself gliding into nerveless, satiated cowardice. Perhaps he had acted
wrongly in refusing the inspectorship offered him. This reflection gave
birth to a stormy struggle in his mind, and he was obliged to brace and
shake himself before he could recover his wonted rigidity of principles.
However, a moist breeze had risen, and was blowing along the covered
way, and he regained some degree of calmness and resolution on being
obliged to button up his coat. The wind seemingly swept from his clothes
all the greasy odour of the pork shop, which had made him feel so
languid.

He was returning home when he met Claude Lantier. The artist, hidden
in the folds of his greenish overcoat, spoke in a hollow voice full of
suppressed anger. He was in a passion with painting, declared that it
was a dog's trade, and swore that he would not take up a brush again as
long as he lived. That very afternoon he had thrust his foot through a
study which he had been making of the head of that hussy Cadine.

Claude was subject to these outbursts, the fruit of his inability to
execute the lasting, living works which he dreamed of. And at such times
life became an utter blank to him, and he wandered about the streets,
wrapped in the gloomiest thoughts, and waiting for the morning as for a