’And they hiss Wagner too; they are the same crew.  I recognise them.  You see that fat fellow over there—­’

Jory had to hold him back.  The journalist for his part would rather have urged on the crowd.  He kept on repeating that it was famous, that there was a hundred thousand francs’ worth of advertisements in it.  And Irma, left to her own devices once more, went up to two of her friends, young Bourse men who were among the most persistent scoffers, but whom she began to indoctrinate, forcing them, as it were, into admiration, by rapping them on the knuckles.

Fagerolles, however, had not opened his lips.  He kept on examining the picture, and glancing at the crowd.  With his Parisian instinct and the elastic conscience of a skilful fellow, he at once fathomed the misunderstanding.  He was already vaguely conscious of what was wanted for that style of painting to make the conquest of everybody—­a little trickery perhaps, some attenuations, a different choice of subject, a milder method of execution.  In the main, the influence that Claude had always had over him persisted in making itself felt; he remained imbued with it; it had set its stamp upon him for ever.  Only he considered Claude to be an arch-idiot to have exhibited such a thing as that.  Wasn’t it stupid to believe in the intelligence of the public?  What was the meaning of that nude woman beside that gentleman who was fully dressed?  And what did those two little wrestlers in the background mean?  Yet the picture showed many of the qualities of a master.  There wasn’t another bit of painting like it in the Salon!  And he felt a great contempt for that artist, so admirably endowed, who through lack of tact made all Paris roar as if he had been the worst of daubers.

This contempt became so strong that he was unable to hide it.  In a moment of irresistible frankness he exclaimed: 

‘Look here, my dear fellow, it’s your own fault, you are too stupid.’

Claude, turning his eyes from the crowd, looked at him in silence.  He had not winced, he had only turned pale amidst the laughter, and if his lips quivered it was merely with a slight nervous twitching; nobody knew him, it was his work alone that was being buffeted.  Then for a moment he glanced again at his picture, and slowly inspected the other canvases in the gallery.  And amidst the collapse of his illusions, the bitter agony of his pride, a breath of courage, a whiff of health and youth came to him from all that gaily-brave painting which rushed with such headlong passion to beat down classical conventionality.  He was consoled and inspirited by it all; he felt no remorse nor contrition, but, on the contrary, was impelled to fight the popular taste still more.  No doubt there was some clumsiness and some puerility of effort in his work, but on the other hand what a pretty general tone, what a play of light he had thrown into it, a silvery grey light, fine and diffuse, brightened by all the dancing sunbeams