of the open air.  It was as if a window had been suddenly opened amidst all the old bituminous cookery of art, amidst all the stewing sauces of tradition, and the sun came in and the walls smiled under that invasion of springtide.  The light note of his picture, the bluish tinge that people had been railing at, flashed out among the other paintings also.  Was this not the expected dawn, a new aurora rising on art?  He perceived a critic who stopped without laughing, some celebrated painters who looked surprised and grave, while Papa Malgras, very dirty, went from picture to picture with the pout of a wary connoisseur, and finally stopped short in front of his canvas, motionless, absorbed.  Then Claude turned round to Fagerolles, and surprised him by this tardy reply: 

’A fellow can only be an idiot according to his own lights, my dear chap, and it looks as if I am going to remain one.  So much the better for you if you are clever!’

Fagerolles at once patted him on the shoulder, like a chum who had only been in fun, and Claude allowed Sandoz to take his arm.  They led him off at last.  The whole band left the Salon of the Rejected, deciding that they would pass on their way through the gallery of architecture; for a design for a museum by Dubuche had been accepted, and for some few minutes he had been fidgeting and begging them with so humble a look, that it seemed difficult indeed to deny him this satisfaction.

‘Ah!’ said Jory, jocularly, on entering the gallery, ’what an ice-well!  One can breathe here.’

They all took off their hats and wiped their foreheads, with a feeling of relief, as if they had reached some big shady trees after a long march in full sunlight.  The gallery was empty.  From the roof, shaded by a white linen screen, there fell a soft, even, rather sad light, which was reflected like quiescent water by the well-waxed, mirror-like floor.  On the four walls, of a faded red, hung the plans and designs in large and small chases, edged with pale blue borders.  Alone—­absolutely alone—­amidst this desert stood a very hirsute gentleman, who was lost in the contemplation of the plan of a charity home.  Three ladies who appeared became frightened and fled across the gallery with hasty steps.

Dubuche was already showing and explaining his work to his comrades.  It was only a drawing of a modest little museum gallery, which he had sent in with ambitious haste, contrary to custom and against the wishes of his master, who, nevertheless, had used his influence to have it accepted, thinking himself pledged to do so.

’Is your museum intended for the accommodation of the paintings of the “open air” school?’ asked Fagerolles, very gravely.

Gagniere pretended to admire the plan, nodding his head, but thinking of something else; while Claude and Sandoz examined it with sincere interest.

‘Not bad, old boy,’ said the former.  ’The ornamentation is still bastardly traditional; but never mind; it will do.’