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Rh low temptations, and to that particular one more than any other. Ladrat had succumbed to it. I have to tell you that in order that presently you may not judge me too severely. It was this terrible habit, indeed, that was the cause of his losing his prix de Rome: he got so drunk that the composition which he had begun with the hand of a master he finished recklessly, à la diable. In short, in 1875 he was the only one of our number who had remained an inhabitant of Bohemia, and in the lowest part of Bohemia. He had degenerated into what we call a 'tapeur,' a man who goes from studio to studio, borrowing a hundred sous here and something more there without any intention of ever paying. A life like that often lasts for years."

"Was he accustomed, at least, to express his gratitude by insulting his benefactor a bit?" I asked, "like a man whom I used to know and who never came to my room without asking me for 'something for the little chapel'—that was his invariable formula—and then insulting me by way of keeping on good terms with his dignity? He comes in one day and finds me busy correcting proof for an article that was about to appear. He begs. I give him something. 'Monsieur,' he says, slipping the piece of silver into his pocket, 'if you wish to know whether a writer has talent or not, all you have to do is to find out whether his copy is accepted at the newspaper offices. If it is accepted, his sentence is pronounced; he is a man of mediocrity. Good-by.' There was a man for you."

"No," said Frémiot, "that was not Ladrat's way. He would thank you, burst into tears, swear that he would go to work and then go out to the café