‘Not at all. I have been working ever since morning, and I’ve had enough of it. I’ve been killing myself for the last hour over a sentence that reads anyhow, and which has worried me all through my lunch.’ The painter made a gesture of despair, and the other, seeing him so gloomy, at once understood matters. ‘You don’t get on either, eh? Well, let’s go out. A sharp walk will take a little of the rust off us. Shall we go?’ As he was passing the kitchen, however, an old woman stopped him. It was his charwoman, who, as a rule, came only for two hours in the morning and two hours in the evening. On Thursdays, however, she remained the whole afternoon in order to look after the dinner. ‘Then it’s decided, monsieur?’ she asked. ‘It’s to be a piece of skate and a leg of mutton, with potatoes.’ ‘Yes, if you like.’ ‘For how many am I to lay the cloth?’ ‘Oh! as for that, one never knows. Lay for five, at any rate; we’ll see afterwards. Dinner at seven, eh? we’ll try to be home by then.’ When they were on the landing, Sandoz, leaving Claude to wait for him, stole into his mother’s room. When he came out again, in the same discreet affectionate manner, they both went downstairs in silence. Outside, having sniffed to right and left, as if to see which way the wind blew, they ended by going up the street, reached the Place de l’Observatoire, and turned down the Boulevard du Montparnasse. This was their ordinary promenade; they reached the spot instinctively, being fond of the wide expanse of the outer boulevards, where they could roam and lounge at ease. They continued silent, for their heads were heavy still, but the comfort of being together gradually made them more serene. Still it was only when they were opposite the Western Railway Station that Sandoz spoke. ‘I say, suppose we go to Mahoudeau’s, to see how he’s getting on with his big machine. I know that he has given “his gods and saints” the slip to-day.’ ‘All right,’ answered Claude. ‘Let’s go to Mahoudeau’s.’ They at once turned into the Rue du Cherche-Midi. There, at a few steps from the boulevard, Mahoudeau, a sculptor, had rented the shop of a fruiterer who had failed in business, and he had installed his studio therein, contenting himself with covering the windows with a layer of whitening. At this point, the street, wide and deserted, has a quiet, provincial aspect, with a somewhat ecclesiastical touch. Large gateways stand wide open showing a succession of deep roomy yards; from a cowkeeper’s establishment comes a tepid, pungent smell of litter; and the dead wall of a convent stretches away for a goodly length. It was between this convent and a herbalist’s that the shop transformed into a studio was situated. It still bore on its sign-board the inscription, ‘Fruit and Vegetables,’ in large yellow letters.