te a storm loose under the
lofty ceiling. Around the table, parties of people who had volunteered
to count the votes were already settled and at work; there were some
fifteen of these parties in all, each comprising a chairman and two
scrutineers. Three or four more remained to be organised, and nobody
else offered assistance; in fact, every one turned away in fear of the
crushing labour which would rivet the more zealous people to the spot
far into the night.

It precisely happened that Fagerolles, who had been in the thick of
it since the morning, was gesticulating and shouting, trying to make
himself heard above the hubbub.

'Come, gentlemen, we need one more man here! Come, some willing person,
over here!'

And at that moment, perceiving Claude, he darted forward and forcibly
dragged him off.

'Ah! as for you, you will just oblige me by sitting down there and
helping us! It's for the good cause, dash it all!'

Claude abruptly found himself chairman of one of the counting
committees, and began to perform his functions with all the gravity of
a timid man, secretly experiencing a good deal of emotion, as if the
hanging of his canvas would depend upon the conscientiousness he showed
in his work. He called out the names inscribed upon the voting-papers,
which were passed to him in little packets, while the scrutineers, on
sheets of paper prepared for the purpose, noted each successive vote
that each candidate obtained. And all this went on amidst a most
frightful uproar, twenty and thirty names being called out at the same
time by different voices, above the continuous rumbling of the crowd.
As Claude could never do anything without throwing passion into it, he
waxed excited, became despondent whenever a voting-paper did not bear
Fagerolles' name, and grew happy as soon as he had to shout out that
name once more. Moreover, he often tasted that delight, for his friend
had made himself popular, showing himself everywhere, frequenting the
cafes where influential groups of artists assembled, even venturing
to expound his opinions there, and binding himself to young artists,
without neglecting to bow very low to the members of the Institute. Thus
there was a general current of sympathy in his favour. Fagerolles was,
so to say, everybody's spoilt child.

Night came on at about six o'clock that rainy March day. The assistants
brought lamps; and some mistrustful artists, who, gloomy and silent,
were watching the counting