able to earn his bread.
Whenever his work miscarried, he undervalued himself, ranked himself
lower than a common labourer, whose sinewy arms could at least perform
their appointed task. For an hour he lingered in the tavern brutifying
himself by listening to the conversation at the tables around him. Once
outside he slowly resumed his walk in haphazard fashion.

When he got to the Place de l'Hotel de Ville, however, a fresh idea made
him quicken his pace. Why had he not thought of Fagerolles? Fagerolles
was a nice fellow, gay, and by no means a fool, although he studied at
the School of Arts. One could talk with him, even when he defended
bad painting. If he had lunched at his father's, in the Rue
Vieille-du-Temple, he must certainly still be there.

On entering the narrow street, Claude felt a sensation of refreshing
coolness come over him. In the sun it had grown very warm, and moisture
rose from the pavement, which, however bright the sky, remained damp and
greasy beneath the constant tramping of the pedestrians. Every minute,
when a push obliged Claude to leave the footwalk, he found himself in
danger of being knocked down by trucks or vans. Still the street amused
him, with its straggling houses out of line, their flat frontages
chequered with signboards up to the very eaves, and pierced with small
windows, whence came the hum of every kind of handiwork that can be
carried on at home. In one of the narrowest parts of the street a small
newspaper shop made him stop. It was betwixt a hairdresser's and a
tripeseller's, and had an outdoor display of idiotic prints, romantic
balderdash mixed with filthy caricatures fit for a barrack-room. In
front of these 'pictures,' a lank hobbledehoy stood lost in reverie,
while two young girls nudged each other and jeered. He felt inclined to
slap their faces, but he hurried across the road, for Fagerolles' house
happened to be opposite. It was a dark old tenement, standing forward
from the others, and was bespattered like them with the mud from the
gutters. As an omnibus came up, Claude barely had time to jump upon the
foot pavement, there reduced to the proportions of a simple ledge; the
wheels brushed against his chest, and he was drenched to his knees.

M. Fagerolles, senior, a manufacturer of artistic zinc-work, had his
workshops on the ground floor of the building, and having converted two
large front rooms on the first floor into a warehouse, he personally
occupied a small,