ping 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 of the open air. It was as if a window
had b