dark, cellar-like apartment overlooking the courtyard.
It was there that his son Henri had grown up, like a true specimen of
the flora of the Paris streets, at the edge of that narrow pavement
constantly struck by the omnibus wheels, always soddened by the gutter
water, and opposite the print and newspaper shop, flanked by the
barber's and tripeseller's. At first his father had made an ornamental
draughtsman of him for personal use. But when the lad had developed
higher ambition, taking to painting proper, and talking about the School
of Arts, there had been quarrels, blows, a series of separations and
reconciliations. Even now, although Henri had already achieved some
successes, the manufacturer of artistic zinc-work, while letting him
have his will, treated him harshly, like a lad who was spoiling his
career.

After shaking off the water, Claude went up the deep archway entrance,
to a courtyard, where the light was quite greenish, and where there was
a dank, musty smell, like that at the bottom of a tank. There was an
overhanging roofing of glass and iron at the foot of the staircase,
which was a wide one, with a wrought-iron railing, eaten with rust. As
the painter passed the warehouse on the first floor, he glanced through
a glass door and noticed M. Fagerolles examining some patterns. Wishing
to be polite, he entered, in spite of the artistic disgust he felt for
all that zinc, coloured to imitate bronze, and having all the repulsive
mendacious prettiness of spurious art.

'Good morning, monsieur. Is Henri still at home?'

The manufacturer, a stout, sallow-looking man, drew himself straight
amidst all his nosegay vases and cruets and statuettes. He had in
his hand a new model of a thermometer, formed of a juggling girl who
crouched and balanced the glass tube on her nose.

'Henri did not come in to lunch,' he answered drily.

This cool reception upset Claude. 'Ah! he did not come back; I beg
pardon for having disturbed you, then. Good-day, monsieur.'

'Good-day.'

Once more outside, Claude began to swear to himself. His ill-luck was
complete, Fagerolles escaped him also. He even felt vexed with himself
for having gone there, and having taken an interest in that picturesque
old street; he was infuriated by the romantic gangrene that ever
sprouted afresh within him, do what he might. It was his malady,
perhaps, the false principle which he sometimes felt like a bar across
his skull. And when he had reached th