farcical affairs that were bound to turn out badly. At
the very moment when he was lashing their spirit of revolt, he himself
formed the firm resolution to work in future for the Prix de Rome. That
day had decided him; he thought it idiotic to compromise his prospects
any further.

The sun was declining on the horizon, there was now only a returning
stream of carriages, coming back from the Bois in the pale golden
shimmer of the sunset. And the exodus from the Salon must have been
nearly over; a long string of pedestrians passed by, gentlemen who
looked like critics, each with a catalogue under his arm.

But all at once Gagniere became enthusiastic: 'Ah! Courajod, there was
one who had his share in inventing landscape painting! Have you seen his
"Pond of Gagny" at the Luxembourg?'

'A marvel!' exclaimed Claude. 'It was painted thirty years ago, and
nothing more substantial has been turned out since. Why is it left at
the Luxembourg? It ought to be in the Louvre.'

'But Courajod isn't dead,' said Fagerolles.

'What! Courajod isn't dead! No one ever sees him or speaks of him now.'

There was general stupefaction when Fagerolles assured them that the
great landscape painter, now seventy years of age, lived somewhere in
the neighbourhood of Montmartre, in a little house among his fowls,
ducks, and dogs. So one might outlive one's own glory! To think that
there were such melancholy instances of old artists disappearing before
their death! Silence fell upon them all; they began to shiver when they
perceived Bongrand pass by on a friend's arm, with a congestive face
and a nervous air as he waved his hand to them; while almost immediately
behind him, surrounded by his disciples, came Chambouvard, laughing very
loudly, and tapping his heels on the pavement with the air of absolute
mastery that comes from confidence in immortality.

'What! are you going?' said Mahoudeau to Chaine, who was rising from his
chair.

The other mumbled some indistinct words in his beard, and went off after
distributing handshakes among the party.

'I know,' said Jory to Mahoudeau. 'I believe he has a weakness for your
neighbour, the herbalist woman. I saw his eyes flash all at once; it
comes upon him like toothache. Look how he's running over there.'

The sculptor shrugged his shoulders amidst the general laughter.

But Claude did not hear. He was now discussing architecture with
Dubuche. No doubt, that plan of a museum gallery which he exh