, to Rembrandt! Look here, I only came in to
pay my respects, but I thank my lucky star for having brought me here.
Let us do a little bit of business. Let me have this gem. Anything you
like to ask for it--I'll cover it with gold.'

One could see Bongrand's back shake, as if his irritation were
increasing at each sentence. He curtly interrupted the dealer.

'Too late; it's sold.'

'Sold, you say. And you cannot annul your bargain? Tell me, at any rate,
to whom it's sold? I'll do everything, I'll give anything. Ah! What a
horrible blow! Sold, are you quite sure of it? Suppose you were offered
double the sum?'

'It's sold, Naudet. That's enough, isn't it?'

However, the dealer went on lamenting. He remained for a few minutes
longer, going into raptures before other sketches, while making the tour
of the studio with the keen glances of a speculator in search of luck.
When he realised that his time was badly chosen, and that he would be
able to take nothing away with him, he went off, bowing with an air of
gratitude, and repeating remarks of admiration as far as the landing.

As soon as he had gone, Jory, who had listened to the conversation with
surprise, ventured to ask a question:

'But you told us, I thought--It isn't sold, is it?'

Without immediately answering, Bongrand went back to his picture. Then,
in his thundering voice, resuming in one cry all his hidden suffering,
the whole of the nascent struggle within him which he dared not avow, he
said:

'He plagues me. He shall never have anything of mine! Let him go and buy
of Fagerolles!'

A quarter of an hour later, Claude and Jory also said good-bye, leaving
Bongrand struggling with his work in the waning daylight. Once outside,
when the young painter had left his companion, he did not at once return
home to the Rue de Douai, in spite of his long absence. He still felt
the want of walking about, of surrendering himself up to that great
city of Paris, where the meetings of one single day sufficed to fill
his brain; and this need of motion made him wander about till the black
night had fallen, through the frozen mud of the streets, beneath the
gas-lamps, which, lighted up one by one, showed like nebulous stars
amidst the fog.

Claude impatiently awaited the Thursday when he was to dine at Sandoz's,
for the latter, immutable in his habits, still invited his cronies to
dinner once a week. All those who chose could come, their covers were
laid. His marriage,