He had suddenly become timid and anxious again.  His artistic scruples, his conscientiousness, kept him working for months on a canvas the size of one’s hand.  Following the track of the French landscape painters, those masters who were the first to conquer nature, he worried about correctness of tone, pondering and pondering over the precise value of tints, till theoretical scruples ended by making his touch heavy.  And he often did not dare to chance a bright dash of colour, but painted in a greyish gloomy key which was astonishing, when one remembered his revolutionary passions.

‘For my part,’ said Mahoudeau, ’I feel delighted at the prospect of making them squint with my woman.’

Claude shrugged his shoulders.  ’Oh! you’ll get in, the sculptors have broader minds than the painters.  And, besides, you know very well what you are about; you have something at your fingers’ ends that pleases.  There will be plenty of pretty bits about your vintaging girl.’

The compliment made Mahoudeau feel serious.  He posed above all for vigour of execution; he was unconscious of his real vein of talent, and despised gracefulness, though it ever invincibly sprung from his big, coarse fingers—­the fingers of an untaught working-man—­like a flower that obstinately sprouts from the hard soil where the wind has flung its seed.

Fagerolles, who was very cunning, had decided to send nothing, for fear of displeasing his masters; and he chaffed the Salon, calling it ’a foul bazaar, where all the bad painting made even the good turn musty.’  In his inmost heart he was dreaming of one day securing the Rome prize, though he ridiculed it, as he did everything else.

However, Jory stationed himself in the middle of the room, holding up his glass of beer.  Sipping every now and then, he declared:  ’Well, your hanging committee quite disgusts me!  I say, shall I demolish it?  I’ll begin bombarding it in our very next number.  You’ll give me some notes, eh? and we’ll knock it to pieces.  That will be fine fun.’

Claude was at last fully wound up, and general enthusiasm prevailed.  Yes, yes, they must start a campaign.  They would all be in it, and, pressing shoulder to shoulder, march to the battle together.  At that moment there was not one of them who reserved his share of fame, for nothing divided them as yet; neither the profound dissemblance of their various natures, of which they themselves were ignorant, nor their rivalries, which would some day bring them into collision.  Was not the success of one the success of all the others?  Their youth was fermenting, they were brimming over with mutual devotion; they indulged anew in their everlasting dream of gathering into a phalanx to conquer the world, each contributing his individual effort; this one helping that one forward, and the whole band reaching fame at once in one row.  Claude, as the acknowledged chief, was already sounding the victory, distributing laurels with such lyrical