step they went hesitatingly down the central avenue, and finally stranded in a little cafe, the Pavillon de la Concorde, on the left, just before reaching the Place.  The place was so small that they sat down outside it at the edge of the footway, despite the chill which fell from a vault of leaves, already fully grown and gloomy.  But beyond the four rows of chestnut-trees, beyond the belt of verdant shade, they could see the sunlit roadway of the main avenue where Paris passed before them as in a nimbus, the carriages with their wheels radiating like stars, the big yellow omnibuses, looking even more profusely gilded than triumphal chariots, the horsemen whose steeds seemed to raise clouds of sparks, and the foot passengers whom the light enveloped in splendour.

And during nearly three hours, with his beer untasted before him, Claude went on talking and arguing amid a growing fever, broken down as he was in body, and with his mind full of all the painting he had just seen.  It was the usual winding up of their visit to the Salon, though this year they were more impassioned on account of the liberal measure of the Emperor.

‘Well, and what of it, if the public does laugh?’ cried Claude.  ’We must educate the public, that’s all.  In reality it’s a victory.  Take away two hundred grotesque canvases, and our Salon beats theirs.  We have courage and audacity—­we are the future.  Yes, yes, you’ll see it later on; we shall kill their Salon.  We shall enter it as conquerors, by dint of producing masterpieces.  Laugh, laugh, you big stupid Paris —­laugh until you fall on your knees before us!’

And stopping short, he pointed prophetically to the triumphal avenue, where the luxury and happiness of the city went rolling by in the sunlight.  His arms stretched out till they embraced even the Place de la Concorde, which could be seen slantwise from where they sat under the trees—­the Place de la Concorde, with the plashing water of one of its fountains, a strip of balustrade, and two of its statues—­Rouen, with the gigantic bosom, and Lille, thrusting forward her huge bare foot.

‘"In the open air”—­it amuses them, eh?’ he resumed.  ’All right, since they are bent on it, the “open air” then, the school of the “open air!” Eh! it was a thing strictly between us, it didn’t exist yesterday beyond the circle of a few painters.  But now they throw the word upon the winds, and they found the school.  Oh!  I’m agreeable.  Let it be the school of the “open air!"’

Jory slapped his thighs.

’Didn’t I tell you?  I felt sure of making them bite with those articles of mine, the idiots that they are.  Ah! how we’ll plague them now.’