But he quickly drew himself up, quite shocked at having read the name of one of his friends, an artist who, like himself, was a rampart of healthy principles.  Hoping that he had not been overheard, he thereupon called out: 

‘Superb!  No. 1, eh, gentlemen?’

No. 1 was granted—­the formula of admission which entitled the picture to be hung on the line.  Only, some of the committee-men laughed and nudged each other, at which Mazel felt very hurt, and became very fierce.

Moreover, they all made such blunders at times.  A great many of them eased their feelings at the first glance, and then recalled their words as soon as they had deciphered the signature.  This ended by making them cautious, and so with furtive glances they made sure of the artist’s name before expressing any opinion.  Besides, whenever a colleague’s work, some fellow committee-man’s suspicious-looking canvas, was brought forward, they took the precaution to warn each other by making signs behind the painter’s back, as if to say, ’Take care, no mistake, mind; it’s his picture.’

Fagerolles, despite his colleagues’ fidgety nerves, carried the day on a first occasion.  It was a question of admitting a frightful portrait painted by one of his pupils, whose family, a very wealthy one, received him on a footing of intimacy.  To achieve this he had taken Mazel on one side in order to try to move him with a sentimental story about an unfortunate father with three daughters, who were starving.  But the president let himself be entreated for a long while, saying that a man shouldn’t waste his time painting when he was dying for lack of food, and that he ought to have a little more consideration for his three daughters!  However, in the result, Mazel raised his hand, alone, with Fagerolles.  Some of the others then angrily protested, and even two members of the Institute seemed disgusted, whereupon Fagerolles whispered to them in a low key: 

’It’s for Mazel!  He begged me to vote.  The painter’s a relative of his, I think; at all events, he greatly wants the picture to be accepted.’

At this the two academicians promptly raised their hands, and a large majority declared itself in favour of the portrait.

But all at once laughter, witticisms, and indignant cries rang out:  ‘The Dead Child’ had just been placed on the trestle.  Were they to have the Morgue sent to them now? said some.  And while the old men drew back in alarm, the younger ones scoffed at the child’s big head, which was plainly that of a monkey who had died from trying to swallow a gourd.

Fagerolles at once understood that the game was lost.  At first he tried to spirit the vote away by a joke, in accordance with his skilful tactics: 

‘Come, gentlemen, an old combatant—­’