s, he no longer affected
low-bred manners to the same degree as formerly; he already began to
dress well, and although with his mocking nature he was still disposed
to snap at everybody as of old, he pursed his lips into the serious
expression of a fellow who wants to make his way in the world. With an
air of conviction he added: 'I must say that I now regret not having
sent anything this year! I should be here with all the rest of you, and
have my share of success. And there are really some astonishing things,
my boys! those horses, for instance.'

He pointed to a huge canvas in front of them, before which the crowd was
gathering and laughing. It was, so people said, the work of an erstwhile
veterinary surgeon, and showed a number of life-size horses in a meadow,
fantastic horses, blue, violet, and pink, whose astonishing anatomy
transpierced their sides.

'I say, don't you humbug us,' exclaimed Claude, suspiciously.

But Fagerolles pretended to be enthusiastic. 'What do you mean? The
picture's full of talent. The fellow who painted it understands horses
devilish well. No doubt he paints like a brute. But what's the odds if
he's original, and contributes a document?'

As he spoke Fagerolles' delicate girlish face remained perfectly grave,
and it was impossible to tell whether he was joking. There was but the
slightest yellow twinkle of spitefulness in the depths of his grey eyes.
And he finished with a sarcastic allusion, the drift of which was as yet
patent to him alone. 'Ah, well! if you let yourself be influenced by the
fools who laugh, you'll have enough to do by and by.'

The three friends had gone on again, only advancing, however, with
infinite difficulty amid that sea of surging shoulders. On entering the
second gallery they gave a glance round the walls, but the picture they
sought was not there. In lieu thereof they perceived Irma Becot on
the arm of Gagniere, both of them pressed against a hand-rail, he busy
examining a small canvas, while she, delighted at being hustled about,
raised her pink little mug and laughed at the crowd.

'Hallo!' said Sandoz, surprised, 'here she is with Gagniere now!'

'Oh, just a fancy of hers!' exclaimed Fagerolles quietly. 'She has a
very swell place now. Yes, it was given her by that young idiot of a
marquis, whom the papers are always talking about. She's a girl who'll
make her way; I've always said so! But she seems to retain a weakness
for painters, and every now and