‘What with their courses of perspective, of descriptive geometry, of stereotomy, of building, and of the history of art--ah! upon my word, they do make one blacken paper with notes. And every month there is a competitive examination in architecture, sometimes a simple sketch, at others a complete design. There’s no time for pleasure if a fellow wishes to pass his examinations and secure the necessary honourable mentions, especially if, besides all that, he has to find time to earn his bread. As for myself, it’s almost killing me.’ One of the cushions having slipped upon the floor, he fished it up with his feet. ‘All the same, I’m lucky. There are so many of us scouring the town every day without getting the smallest job. The day before yesterday I discovered an architect who works for a large contractor. You can have no idea of such an ignoramus of an architect--a downright numskull, incapable even of tracing a plan. He gives me twenty-five sous an hour, and I set his houses straight for him. It came just in time, too, for my mother sent me word that she was quite cleared out. Poor mother, what a lot of money I have to refund her!’ As Dubuche was evidently talking to himself, chewing the cud of his everyday thoughts--his constant thoughts of making a rapid fortune--Sandoz did not even trouble to listen to him. He had opened the little window, and seated himself on a level with the roof, for he felt oppressed by the heat in the studio. But all at once he interrupted the architect. ‘I say, are you coming to dinner on Thursday? All the other fellows will be there--Fagerolles, Mahoudeau, Jory, Gagnière.’ Every Thursday, quite a band met at Sandoz’s: friends from Plassans and others met in Paris--revolutionaries to a man, and all animated by the same passionate love of art. ‘Next Thursday? No, I think not,’ answered Dubuche. ‘I am obliged to go to a dance at a family’s I know.’ ‘Where you expect to get hold of a dowry, I suppose?’ ‘Well, it wouldn’t be such a bad spec.’ He shook the ashes from his pipe on to his left palm, and then, suddenly raising his voice--‘I almost forgot. I have had a letter from Pouillaud.’ ‘You, too!--well, I think he’s pretty well done for, Pouillaud. Another good fellow gone wrong.’ ‘Why gone wrong? He’ll succeed his father; he’ll spend his money quietly down there. He writes rationally enough. I always said he’d show us a thing or two, in spite of all his practical jokes. Ah! that beast of a Pouillaud.’ Sandoz, furious, was about to reply, when a despairing oath from Claude stopped him. The latter had not opened his lips since he had so obstinately resumed his work. To all appearance he had not even listened.