As a rule the painter closed with him at once, ashamed and humbled at this miserable chaffering, glad also to get a little money now and then. But this time he was obstinate, and took to insulting the picture-dealer, who, giving tit for tat, all at once dropped the formal ‘you’ to assume the glib ‘thou,’ denied his talent, overwhelmed him with invective, and taxed him with ingratitude. Meanwhile, however, he had taken from his pocket three successive five-franc pieces, which, as if playing at chuck-farthing, he flung from a distance upon the table, where they rattled among the crockery.
‘One, two, three—not one more, dost hear? for there is already one too many, and I’ll take care to get it back; I’ll deduct it from something else of thine, as I live. Fifteen francs for that! Thou art wrong, my lad, and thou’lt be sorry for this dirty trick.’
Quite exhausted, Claude let him take down the little canvas, which disappeared as if by magic in his capacious green coat. Had it dropped into a special pocket, or was it reposing on Papa Malgras’ ample chest? Not the slightest protuberance indicated its whereabouts.
Having accomplished his stroke of business, Papa Malgras abruptly calmed down and went towards the door. But he suddenly changed his mind and came back. ‘Just listen, Lantier,’ he said, in the honeyest of tones; ‘I want a lobster painted. You really owe me that much after fleecing me. I’ll bring you the lobster, you’ll paint me a bit of still life from it, and keep it for your pains. You can eat it with your friends. It’s settled, isn’t it?’
At this proposal Sandoz and Dubuche, who had hitherto listened inquisitively, burst into such loud laughter that the picture-dealer himself became gay. Those confounded painters, they did themselves no good, they simply starved. What would have become of the lazy beggars if he, Papa Malgras, hadn’t brought a leg of mutton now and then, or a nice fresh plaice, or a lobster, with its garnish of parsley?
‘You’ll paint me my lobster, eh, Lantier? Much obliged.’ And he stationed himself anew before the large canvas, with his wonted smile of mingled derision and admiration. And at last he went off, repeating, ‘Well, well, there’s a machine.’
Claude wanted to take up his palette and brushes once more. But his legs refused their service; his arms fell to his side, stiff, as if pinioned there by some occult force. In the intense melancholy silence that had followed the din of the dispute he staggered, distracted, bereft of sight before his shapeless work.
‘I’m done for, I’m done for,’ he gasped. ‘That brute has finished me off!’
The clock had just struck seven; he had been at work for eight mortal hours without tasting anything but a crust of bread, without taking a moment’s rest, ever on his legs, shaken by feverish excitement. And now the sun was setting, shadows began to darken the studio, which in the gloaming assumed a most melancholy aspect. When the light went down like this on the crisis of a bad day’s work, it seemed to Claude as if the sun would never rise again, but had for ever carried life and all the jubilant gaiety of colour away.
‘Come,’ implored Sandoz, with all the gentleness of brotherly compassion. ‘Come, there’s a good fellow.’