But furious exclamations cut him short.  Oh, no! not that one.  They knew him, that old combatant!  A madman who had been persevering in his obstinacy for fifteen years past—­a proud, stuck-up fellow who posed for being a genius, and who had talked about demolishing the Salon, without even sending a picture that it was possible to accept.  All their hatred of independent originality, of the competition of the ‘shop over the way,’ which frightened them, of that invincible power which triumphs even when it is seemingly defeated, resounded in their voices.  No, no; away with it!

Then Fagerolles himself made the mistake of getting irritated, yielding to the anger he felt at finding what little real influence he possessed.

‘You are unjust; at least, be impartial,’ he said.

Thereupon the tumult reached a climax.  He was surrounded and jostled, arms waved about him in threatening fashion, and angry words were shot out at him like bullets.

‘You dishonour the committee, monsieur!’

’If you defend that thing, it’s simply to get your name in the newspapers!’

‘You aren’t competent to speak on the subject!’

Then Fagerolles, beside himself, losing even the pliancy of his bantering disposition, retorted: 

‘I’m as competent as you are.’

‘Shut up!’ resumed a comrade, a very irascible little painter with a fair complexion.  ’You surely don’t want to make us swallow such a turnip as that?’

Yes, yes, a turnip!  They all repeated the word in tones of conviction —­that word which they usually cast at the very worst smudges, at the pale, cold, glairy painting of daubers.

‘All right,’ at last said Fagerolles, clenching his teeth.  ’I demand the vote.’

Since the discussion had become envenomed, Mazel had been ringing his bell, extremely flushed at finding his authority ignored.

’Gentlemen—­come, gentlemen; it’s extraordinary that one can’t settle matters without shouting—­I beg of you, gentlemen—­’

At last he obtained a little silence.  In reality, he was not a bad-hearted man.  Why should not they admit that little picture, although he himself thought it execrable?  They admitted so many others!

‘Come, gentlemen, the vote is asked for.’

He himself was, perhaps, about to raise his hand, when Bongrand, who had hitherto remained silent, with the blood rising to his cheeks in the anger he was trying to restrain, abruptly went off like a pop-gun, most unseasonably giving vent to the protestations of his rebellious conscience.

’But, curse it all! there are not four among us capable of turning out such a piece of work!’

Some grunts sped around; but the sledge-hammer blow had come upon them with such force that nobody answered.

‘Gentlemen, the vote is asked for,’ curtly repeated Mazel, who had turned pale.

His tone sufficed to explain everything:  it expressed all his latent hatred of Bongrand, the fierce rivalry that lay hidden under their seemingly good-natured handshakes.