He was small and thin, with a bony face, already wrinkled at twenty-seven. His black mane-like hair lay entangled over his very low forehead, and his sallow mask, ugly almost to ferociousness, was lighted up by a pair of childish eyes, bright and empty, which smiled with winning simplicity. The son of a stonemason of Plassans, he had achieved great success at the local art competitions, and had afterwards come to Paris as the town laureate, with an allowance of eight hundred francs per annum, for a period of four years. In the capital, however, he had found himself at sea, defenceless, failing in his competitions at the School of Arts, and spending his allowance to no purpose; so that, at the end of his term, he had been obliged for a livelihood to enter the employment of a dealer in church statues, at whose establishment, for ten hours a day, he scraped away at St. Josephs, St. Rochs, Mary Magdalens, and, in fact, all the saints of the calendar. For the last six months, however, he had experienced a revival of ambition, on finding himself once more among his comrades of Provence, the eldest of whom he was--fellows whom he had known at Geraud’s boarding-school for little boys, and who had since grown into savage revolutionaries. At present, through his constant intercourse with impassioned artists, who troubled his brain with all sorts of wild theories, his ambition aimed at the gigantic. ‘The devil!’ said Claude, ‘there’s a lump.’ The sculptor, delighted, gave a long pull at his pipe, and blew a cloud of smoke. ‘Eh, isn’t it? I am going to give them some flesh, and living flesh, too; not the bladders of lard that they turn out.’ ‘It’s a woman bathing, isn’t it?’ asked Sandoz. ‘No; I shall put some vine leaves around her head. A Bacchante, you understand.’ At this Claude flew into a violent passion. ‘A Bacchante? Do you want to make fools of people? Does such a thing as a Bacchante exist? A vintaging girl, eh? And quite modern, dash it all. I know she’s nude, so let her be a peasant woman who has undressed. And that must be properly conveyed, mind; people must realise that she lives.’ Mahoudeau, taken aback, listened, trembling. He was afraid of Claude, and bowed to his ideal of strength and truth. So he even improved upon the painter’s idea. ‘Yes, yes, that’s what I meant to say--a vintaging girl. And you’ll see whether there isn’t a real touch of woman about her.’ At that moment Sandoz, who had been making the tour of the huge block of clay, exclaimed: ‘Why, here’s that sneak of a Chaîne.’