‘The old humbug!’ added Claude. ‘Why, he has his little Salon all to himself. That’s very cute indeed.’ Chaîne’s face became radiant, and he dropped the remark: ‘Of course!’ Then, as his artistic pride was roused, he, from whom people barely wrung anything but growls, gave utterance to a whole sentence: ‘Ah! it’s quite certain that if I had had any money, like you fellows, I should have made my way, just as you have done, in spite of everything.’ That was his conviction. He had never doubted of his talent, he had simply forsaken the profession because it did not feed him. When he visited the Louvre, at sight of the masterpieces hanging there he felt convinced that time alone was necessary to turn out similar work. ‘Ah, me!’ said Claude, who had become gloomy again. ‘Don’t regret what you’ve done; you alone have succeeded. Business is brisk, eh?’ But Chaîne muttered bitter words. No, no, there was nothing doing, not even in his line. People wouldn’t play for prizes; all the money found its way to the wine-shops. In spite of buying paltry odds and ends, and striking the table with the palm of one’s hand, so that the feather might not indicate one of the big prizes, a fellow barely had water to drink nowadays. Then, as some people had drawn near, he stopped short in his explanation to call out: ‘Walk up, walk up, at every turn you win!’ in a gruff voice which the two others had never known him to possess, and which fairly stupefied them. A workman who was carrying a sickly little girl with large covetous eyes, let her play two turns. The revolving stands grated and the nick-nacks danced round in dazzling fashion, while the live rabbit, with his ears lowered, revolved and revolved so rapidly that the outline of his body vanished and he became nothing but a whitish circle. There was a moment of great emotion, for the little girl had narrowly missed winning him. Then, after shaking hands with Chaîne, who was still trembling with the fright this had given him, the two friends walked away. ‘He’s happy,’ said Claude, after they had gone some fifty paces in silence. ‘He!’ cried Sandoz; ‘why, he believes he has missed becoming a member of the Institute, and it’s killing him.’