broken. Can I move for a moment?'

Claude let him stretch himself without answering. He was now working
at the velveteen jacket, laying on the colour with thick strokes,
However, stepping backward and blinking, he suddenly burst into loud
laughter at some reminiscence.

'I say, do you recollect, when we were in the sixth form, how, one
day, Pouillaud lighted the candles in that idiot Lalubie's cupboard?
And how frightened Lalubie was when, before going to his desk, he
opened the cupboard to take his books, and found it transformed into a
mortuary chapel? Five hundred lines to every one in the form.'

Sandoz, unable to withstand the contagion of the other's gaiety, flung
himself back on the couch. As he resumed his pose, he remarked, 'Ah,
that brute of a Pouillaud. You know that in his letter this morning he
tells me of Lalubie's forthcoming marriage. The old hack is marrying a
pretty girl. But you know her, she's the daughter of Gallissard, the
haberdasher--the little fair-haired girl whom we used to serenade!'

Once on the subject of their recollections there was no stopping them,
though Claude went on painting with growing feverishness, while
Pierre, still turned towards the wall, spoke over his shoulders,
shaking every now and then with excitement.

First of all came recollections of the college, the old, dank convent,
that extended as far as the town ramparts; the two courtyards with
their huge plane trees; the slimy sedge-covered pond, where they had
learned to swim, and the class-rooms with dripping plaster walls on
the ground floor; then the refectory, with its atmosphere constantly