een 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 h