noon
In the disaster little Jacques was sadly weakened by unwholesome and insufficient food , for their meals often consisted of a mere crust , eaten standing . With their lives thus ill-regulated , uncared for , they were drifting to the filth of the poor who lose even all self-pride . At the close of another year , Claude , on one of those days of defeat , when he fled from his miscarried picture , met an old acquaintance . This time he had sworn he would never go home again , and he had been tramping across Paris since noon , as if at his heels he had heard the wan spectre of the big , nude figure of his picture -- ravaged by constant retouching , and always left incomplete -- pursuing him with a passionate craving for birth . The mist was melting into a yellowish drizzle , befouling the muddy streets . It was about five o'clock , and he was crossing the Rue Royale like one walking in his sleep , at the risk of being run over , his clothes in rags and mud-bespattered up to his neck , when a brougham suddenly drew up . ` Claude , eh ?