There were caricatures of the students themselves,
coarse witticisms fit to make a gendarme turn pale, epigrammatic
sentences, addition sums, addresses, and so forth; while, above all
else, written in big letters, and occupying the most prominent place,
appeared this inscription: 'On the 7th of June, Gorfu declared that he
didn't care a hang for Rome.--Signed, Godemard.'*

* The allusion is to the French Art School at Rome, and the
competitions into which students enter to obtain admission
to it, or to secure the prizes offered for the best exhibits
which, during their term of residence, they send to Paris.--ED.

Claude was greeted with a growl like that of wild beasts disturbed in
their lair. What kept him motionless was the strange aspect of this
place on the morning of the 'truck night,' as the embryo architects
termed the crucial night of labour. Since the previous evening, the
whole studio, some sixty pupils, had been shut up there; those who had
no designs to exhibit--'the niggers,' as they were called remaining to
help the others, the competitors who, being behind time, had to knock
off the work of a week in a dozen hours. Already, at midnight, they had
stuffed themselves with brawn, saveloys, and similar viands, washed down
with cheap wine. Towards one o'clock they had secured the company of
some 'ladies'; and, without the work abating, the feast had turned into
a Roman orgy, blended with a smoking competition. On the damp, stained
floor there remained a great litter of greasy paper and broken bottles;
while the atmosphere reeked of burnt tallow, musk, highly seasoned
sausages, and cheap bluish wine.

And now many voices savagely yelled: 'Turn him out. Oh, that mug! What
does he want, that guy? Turn him out, turn him out.'

For a moment Claude, quite dazed, staggered beneath the violence of the
onslaught. But the epithets became viler, for the acme of elegance,
even for the more refined among these young fellows, was to rival
one's friends in beastly language. He was, nevertheless, recovering
and beginning to answer, when Dubuche recognised him. The latter turned
crimson, for he detested that kind of adventure. He felt ashamed of
his friend, and rushed towards him, amidst the jeers, which were now
levelled at himself:

'What, is it you?' he gasped. 'I told you never to come in. Just wait
for me a minute in the yard.'

At that moment, Claude, who was stepping back, narrowly escaped being
knoc