That was all very well for the poet Rodolphe, a good-for-nothing who was ready to turn his hand to anything, and who never let a five franc piece flit past him without trying to capture it, no matter how.

The painter Lazare, a proud wearer of rags, would never have soiled his brushes by painting the portrait of a tailor holding a parrot on his forefinger, as our friend the painter Marcel had once done in exchange for the famous dress coat nicknamed Methuselah, which the hands of each of his sweethearts had starred over with darns.
All the while he had been living in communion of thought with the Water Drinkers, the sculptor Jacques had submitted to the tyranny of the club rules; but when he made the acquaintance of Francine, he would not make the poor girl, already ill, share of the regimen he had accepted during his solitude.

Jacques' was above all an upright and loyal nature.

He went to the president of the club, the exclusive Lazare, and informed him that for the future he would accept any work that would bring him in anything.
"My dear fellow, your declaration of love is your artistic renunciation.
We will remain your friends if you like, but we shall no longer be your partners.

Work as you please, for me you are no longer a sculptor, but a plasterer.