And if Christine failed to look amused at all this, Claude rose up and said, in a churlish voice:  ’Oh, you; nothing will make you laugh —­let’s go to bed.’

He still adored her, but she no longer sufficed.  Another torment had invincibly seized hold of him—­the passion for art, the thirst for fame.

In the spring, Claude, who, with an affectation of disdain, had sworn he would never again exhibit, began to worry a great deal about the Salon.  Whenever he saw Sandoz he questioned him about what the comrades were going to send.  On the opening day he went to Paris and came back the same evening, stern and trembling.  There was only a bust by Mahoudeau, said he, good enough, but of no importance.  A small landscape by Gagniere, admitted among the ruck, was also of a pretty sunny tone.  Then there was nothing else, nothing but Fagerolles’ picture—­an actress in front of her looking-glass painting her face.  He had not mentioned it at first; but he now spoke of it with indignant laughter.  What a trickster that Fagerolles was!  Now that he had missed his prize he was no longer afraid to exhibit—­he threw the School overboard; but you should have seen how skilfully he managed it, what compromises he effected, painting in a style which aped the audacity of truth without possessing one original merit.  And it would be sure to meet with success, the bourgeois were only too fond of being titillated while the artist pretended to hustle them.  Ah! it was time indeed for a true artist to appear in that mournful desert of a Salon, amid all the knaves and the fools.  And, by heavens, what a place might be taken there!

Christine, who listened while he grew angry, ended by faltering: 

‘If you liked, we might go back to Paris.’

‘Who was talking of that?’ he shouted.  ’One can never say a word to you but you at once jump to false conclusions.’

Six weeks afterwards he heard some news that occupied his mind for a week.  His friend Dubuche was going to marry Mademoiselle Regine Margaillan, the daughter of the owner of La Richaudiere.  It was an intricate story, the details of which surprised and amused him exceedingly.  First of all, that cur Dubuche had managed to hook a medal for a design of a villa in a park, which he had exhibited; that of itself was already sufficiently amusing, as it was said that the drawing had been set on its legs by his master, Dequersonniere, who had quietly obtained this medal for him from the jury over which he presided.  Then the best of it was that this long-awaited reward had decided the marriage.  Ah! it would be nice trafficking if medals were now awarded to settle needy pupils in rich families!  Old Margaillan, like all parvenus, had set his heart upon having a son-in-law who could help him, by bringing authentic diplomas and fashionable clothes into the business; and for some time past he had had his eyes on that young man, that pupil of the School of Arts, whose notes were excellent,