'It's for Mazel! He begged me to vote. The painter's a relative of his,
I think; at all events, he greatly wants the picture to be accepted.'

At this the two academicians promptly raised their hands, and a large
majority declared itself in favour of the portrait.

But all at once laughter, witticisms, and indignant cries rang out: 'The
Dead Child' had just been placed on the trestle. Were they to have the
Morgue sent to them now? said some. And while the old men drew back
in alarm, the younger ones scoffed at the child's big head, which was
plainly that of a monkey who had died from trying to swallow a gourd.

Fagerolles at once understood that the game was lost. At first he
tried to spirit the vote away by a joke, in accordance with his skilful
tactics:

'Come, gentlemen, an old combatant--'

But furious exclamations cut him short. Oh, no! not that one. They
knew him, that old combatant! A madman who had been persevering in his
obstinacy for fifteen years past--a proud, stuck-up fellow who posed for
being a genius, and who had talked about demolishing the Salon, without
even sending a picture that it was possible to accept. All their hatred
of independent originality, of the competition of the 'shop over the
way,' which frightened them, of that invincible power which triumphs
even when it is seemingly defeated, resounded in their voices. No, no;
away with it!

Then Fagerolles himself made the mistake of getting irritated, yielding
to the anger he felt at finding what little real influence he possessed.

'You are unjust; at least, be impartial,' he said.

Thereupon the tumult reached a climax. He was surrounded and jostled,
arms waved about him in threatening fashion, and angry words were shot
out at him like bullets.

'You dishonour the committee, monsieur!'

'If you defend that thing, it's simply to get your name in the
newspapers!'

'You aren't competent to speak on the subject!'

Then Fagerolles, beside himself, losing even the pliancy of his
bantering disposition, retorted:

'I'm as competent as you are.'

'Shut up!' resumed a comrade, a very irascible little painter with a
fair complexion. 'You surely don't want to make us swallow such a turnip
as that?'

Yes, yes, a turnip! They all repeated the word in tones of
conviction--that word which they usually cast at the very worst smudges,
at the pale, cold, glairy painting of daubers.

'All right,' at last said Fagerolles, clenching his teeth. 'I