ce
capitulates; he once more began to long for the opening of the Salon
with all the feverish impatience of a beginner, again living in a state
of illusion which showed him a crowd, a press of moving heads acclaiming
his canvas.

By degrees Paris had made it the fashion to patronise 'varnishing
day'--that day formerly set aside for painters only to come and finish
the toilets of their pictures. Now, however, it was like a feast of
early fruit, one of those solemnities which set the city agog and
attract a tremendous crowd. For a week past the newspaper press, the
streets, and the public had belonged to the artists. They held Paris in
their grasp; the only matters talked of were themselves, their exhibits,
their sayings or doings--in fact, everything connected with them. It
was one of those infatuations which at last draw bands of country
folk, common soldiers, and even nursemaids to the galleries on days
of gratuitous admission, in such wise that fifty thousand visitors are
recorded on some fine Sundays, an entire army, all the rear battalions
of the ignorant lower orders, following society, and marching, with
dilated eyes, through that vast picture shop.

That famous 'varnishing day' at first frightened Claude, who was
intimidated by the thought of all the fine people whom the newspapers
spoke about, and he resolved to wait for the more democratic day of
the real inauguration. He even refused to accompany Sandoz. But he was
consumed by such a fever, that after all he started off abruptly at
eight o'clock in the morning, barely taking time to eat a bit of bread
and cheese beforehand. Christine, who lacked the courage to go with him,
kissed him again and again, feeling anxious and moved.

'Mind, my dear, don't worry, whatever happens,' said she.

Claude felt somewhat oppressed as he entered the Gallery of Honour. His
heart was beating fast from the swiftness with which he had climbed the
grand staircase. There was a limpid May sky out of doors, and through
the linen awnings, stretched under the glazed roof, there filtered a
bright white light, while the open doorways, communicating with the
garden gallery, admitted moist gusts of quivering freshness. For a
moment Claude drew breath in that atmosphere which was already tainted
with a vague smell of varnish and the odour of the musk with which the
women present perfumed themselves. At a glance he took stock of the
pictures on the walls: a huge massacre scene in front o