idleness and satiation from hour to hour. He wanted to eat well, sleep
well, to abundantly satisfy his passions, without moving from his place,
without running the risk of the slightest fatigue.

The profession of advocate had terrified him, and he shuddered at
the idea of tilling the soil. He had plunged into art, hoping to find
therein a calling suitable to an idle man. The paint-brush struck him
as being an instrument light to handle, and he fancied success easy.
His dream was a life of cheap sensuality, a beautiful existence full of
houris, of repose on divans, of victuals and intoxication.

The dream lasted so long as daddy Laurent sent the crown pieces. But
when the young man, who was already thirty, perceived the wolf at the
door, he began to reflect. Face to face with privations, he felt himself
a coward. He would not have accepted a day without bread, for the utmost
glory art could bestow. As he had said himself, he sent art to the
deuce, as soon as he recognised that it would never suffice to satisfy
his numerous requirements. His first efforts had been below mediocrity;
his peasant eyes caught a clumsy, slovenly view of nature; his muddy,
badly drawn, grimacing pictures, defied all criticism.

But he did not seem to have an over-dose of vanity for an artist; he was
not in dire despair when he had to put aside his brushes. All he really
regretted was the vast studio of his college chum, where he had been
voluptuously grovelling for four or five years. He also regretted the
women who came to pose there. Nevertheless he found himself at ease in
his position as clerk; he lived very well in a brutish fashion, and he
was fond of this daily task, which did not fatigue him, and soothed
his mind. Still one thing irritated him: the food at the eighteen sous
ordinaries failed to appease the gluttonous appetite of his stomach.