me,' he said,
'Well, it's understood, your affair's settled--that is, unless I'm
not elected. Come to the Palais de l'Industrie on the evening the
voting-papers are counted. Oh! there will be a regular crush, quite a
rumpus! Still, you will always learn if you can rely on me.'

At first, Claude inwardly swore that he would not trouble about it.
Fagerolles' protection weighed heavily upon him; and yet, in his heart
of hearts, he really had but one fear, that the shifty fellow would not
keep his promise, but would ultimately be taken with a fit of cowardice
at the idea of protecting a defeated man. However, on the day of the
vote Claude could not keep still, but went and roamed about the Champs
Elysees under the pretence of taking a long walk. He might as well go
there as elsewhere, for while waiting for the Salon he had altogether
ceased work. He himself could not vote, as to do so it was necessary to
have been 'hung' on at least one occasion. However, he repeatedly passed
before the Palais de l'Industrie,* the foot pavement in front of which
interested him with its bustling aspect, its procession of artist
electors, whom men in dirty blouses caught hold of, shouting to them
the titles of their lists of candidates--lists some thirty in number
emanating from every possible coterie, and representing every possible
opinion. There was the list of the studios of the School of Arts, the
liberal list, the list of the uncompromising radical painters, the
conciliatory list, the young painters' list, even the ladies' list,
and so forth. The scene suggested all the turmoil at the door of an
electoral polling booth on the morrow of a riot.

* This palace, for many years the home of the 'Salon,' was built
for the first Paris International Exhibition, that of 1855,
and demolished in connection with that of 1900.--ED.

At four o'clock in the afternoon, when the voting was over, Claude could
not resist a fit of curiosity to go and have a look. The staircase was
now free, and whoever chose could enter. Upstairs, he came upon the huge
gallery, overlooking the Champs Elysees, which was set aside for the
hanging committee. A table, forty feet long, filled the centre of this
gallery, and entire trees were burning in the monumental fireplace at
one end of it. Some four or five hundred electors, who had remained to
see the votes counted, stood there, mingled with friends and inquisitive
strangers, talking, laughing, and setting qui