of clay:
a colossal Bacchante, falling back upon a rock. The wooden stays bent
beneath the weight of that almost shapeless pile, of which nothing but
some huge limbs could as yet be distinguished. Some water had been spilt
on the floor, several muddy buckets straggled here and there, while
a heap of moistened plaster was lying in a corner. On the shelves,
formerly occupied by fruit and vegetables, were scattered some casts
from the antique, covered with a tracery of cinder-like dust which had
gradually collected there. A wash-house kind of dampness, a stale
smell of moist clay, rose from the floor. And the wretchedness of this
sculptor's studio and the dirt attendant upon the profession were made
still more conspicuous by the wan light that filtered through the shop
windows besmeared with whitening.

'What! is it you?' shouted Mahoudeau, who sat before his female figure,
smoking a pipe.

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