a list of persons whose names they intended to mention.  A critic pretended to take some notes on the margin of his catalogue; another was holding forth in professor’s style in the centre of a party of beginners; a third, all by himself, with his hands behind his back, seemed rooted to one spot, crushing each work beneath his august impassibility.  And what especially struck Claude was the jostling flock-like behaviour of the people, their banded curiosity in which there was nothing youthful or passionate, the bitterness of their voices, the weariness to be read on their faces, their general appearance of suffering.  Envy was already at work; there was the gentleman who makes himself witty with the ladies; the one who, without a word, looks, gives a terrible shrug of the shoulders, and then goes off; and there were the two who remain for a quarter of an hour leaning over the handrail, with their noses close to a little canvas, whispering very low and exchanging the knowing glances of conspirators.

But Fagerolles had just appeared, and amid the continuous ebb and flow of the groups there seemed to be no one left but him.  With his hand outstretched, he seemed to show himself everywhere at the same time, lavishly exerting himself to play the double part of a young ‘master’ and an influential member of the hanging committee.  Overwhelmed with praise, thanks, and complaints, he had an answer ready for everybody without losing aught of his affability.  Since early morning he had been resisting the assault of the petty painters of his set who found their pictures badly hung.  It was the usual scamper of the first moment, everybody looking for everybody else, rushing to see one another and bursting into recriminations—­noisy, interminable fury.  Either the picture was too high up, or the light did not fall upon it properly, or the paintings near it destroyed its effect; in fact, some talked of unhooking their works and carrying them off.  One tall thin fellow was especially tenacious, going from gallery to gallery in pursuit of Fagerolles, who vainly explained that he was innocent in the matter and could do nothing.  Numerical order was followed, the pictures for each wall were deposited on the floor below and then hung up without anybody being favoured.  He carried his obligingness so far as to promise his intervention when the galleries were rearranged after the medals had been awarded; but even then he did not manage to calm the tall thin fellow, who still continued pursuing him.

Claude for a moment elbowed his way through the crowd to go and ask Fagerolles where his picture had been hung.  But on seeing his friend so surrounded, pride restrained him.  Was there not something absurd and painful about this constant need of another’s help?  Besides, he suddenly reflected that he must have skipped a whole suite of galleries on the right-hand side; and, indeed, there were fresh leagues of painting there.  He ended by reaching a gallery where a stifling crowd was massed in front of a large picture which filled the central panel of honour.  At first he could not see it, there was such a surging sea of shoulders, such a thick wall of heads, such a rampart of hats.  People rushed forward with gaping admiration.  At length, however, by dint of rising on tiptoe, he perceived the marvel, and recognised the subject, by what had been told him.