, he seemed to show himself everywhere at the same time,
lavishly exerting himself to play the double part of a young 'master'
and an influential member of the hanging committee. Overwhelmed with
praise, thanks, and complaints, he had an answer ready for everybody
without losing aught of his affability. Since early morning he had been
resisting the assault of the petty painters of his set who found their
pictures badly hung. It was the usual scamper of the first moment,
everybody looking for everybody else, rushing to see one another and
bursting into recriminations--noisy, interminable fury. Either the
picture was too high up, or the light did not fall upon it properly,
or the paintings near it destroyed its effect; in fact, some talked of
unhooking their works and carrying them off. One tall thin fellow
was especially tenacious, going from gallery to gallery in pursuit of
Fagerolles, who vainly explained that he was innocent in the matter and
could do nothing. Numerical order was followed, the pictures for each
wall were deposited on the floor below and then hung up without anybody
being favoured. He carried his obligingness so far as to promise his
intervention when the galleries were rearranged after the medals had
been awarded; but even then he did not manage to calm the tall thin
fellow, who still continued pursuing him.

Claude for a moment elbowed his way through the crowd to go and ask
Fagerolles where his picture had been hung. But on seeing his friend
so surrounded, pride restrained him. Was there not something absurd and
painful about this constant need of another's help? Besides, he suddenly
reflected that he must have skipped a whole suite of galleries on the
right-hand side; and, indeed, there were fresh leagues of painting
there. He ended by reaching a gallery where a stifling crowd was massed
in front of a large picture which filled the central panel of honour.
At first he could not see it, there was such a surging sea of shoulders,
such a thick wall of heads, such a rampart of hats. People rushed
forward with gaping admiration. At length, however, by dint of rising on
tiptoe, he perceived the marvel, and recognised the subject, by what had
been told him.

It was Fagerolles' picture. And in that 'Picnic' he found his own
forgotten work, 'In the Open Air,' the same light key of colour, the
same artistic formula, but softened, trickishly rendered, spoilt by
skin-deep elegance, everything being 'arranged'