, in that brazier
of their own kindling!

Bongrand, who had not stirred the while, made a vague gesture of
suffering at the sight of that boundless confidence, that boisterous
joy at the prospect of attack. He forgot the hundred paintings which
had brought him his glory, he was thinking of the work which he had left
roughed out on his easel now. Taking his cutty from between his lips, he
murmured, his eyes glistening with kindliness, 'Oh, youth, youth!'

Until two in the morning, Sandoz, who seemed ubiquitous, kept on pouring
fresh supplies of hot water into the teapot. From the neighbourhood,
now asleep, one now only heard the miawing of an amorous tabby. They all
talked at random, intoxicated by their own words, hoarse with shouting,
their eyes scorched, and when at last they made up their minds to go,
Sandoz took the lamp to show them a light over the banisters, saying
very softly:

'Don't make a noise, my mother is asleep.'

The hushed tread of their boots on the stairs died away at last, and
deep silence fell upon the house.

It struck four. Claude, who had accompanied Bongrand, still went on
talking to him in the deserted streets. He did not want to go to bed; he
was waiting for daylight, with impatient fury, so that he might set
to work at his picture again. This time he felt certain of painting a
masterpiece, exalted as he was by that happy day of good-fellowship,
his mind pregnant with a world of things. He had discovered at last what
painting meant, and he pictured himself re-entering his studio as one
returns into the presence of a woman one adores, his heart throbbing
violently, regretting even this one day's absence, which seemed to him
endless desertion. And he would go straight to his canvas, and realise
his dream in one sitting. However, at every dozen steps or so, amidst
the flickering light of the gaslamps, Bongrand caught him by a button
of his coat, to repeat to him that, after all, painting was an accursed
trade. Sharp as he, Bongrand, was supposed to be, he did not understand
it yet. At each new work he undertook, he felt as if he were making a
debut; it was enough to make one smash one's head against the wall. The
sky was now brightening, some market gardeners' carts began rolling down
towards the central markets; and the pair continued chattering, each
talking for himself, in a loud voice, beneath the paling stars.

IV

SIX weeks later, Claude was painting one morning amidst a flood