their respectful attention. The evil
look, the weariness, which he had at first remarked on their faces, as
envious bile drew their skin together and dyed it yellow, disappeared
here while they enjoyed the treat of an amiable lie. Two fat ladies,
open-mouthed, were yawning with satisfaction. Some old gentlemen opened
their eyes wide with a knowing air. A husband explained the subject to
his young wife, who jogged her chin with a pretty motion of the neck.
There was every kind of marvelling, beatifical, astonished, profound,
gay, austere, amidst unconscious smiles and languid postures of the
head. The men threw back their black silk hats, the flowers in the
women's bonnets glided to the napes of their necks. And all the faces,
after remaining motionless for a moment, were then drawn aside and
replaced by others exactly like them.

Then Claude, stupefied by that triumph, virtually forgot everything
else. The gallery was becoming too small, fresh bands of people
constantly accumulated inside it. There were no more vacant spaces, as
there had been early in the morning; no more cool whiffs rose from
the garden amid the ambient smell of varnish; the atmosphere was now
becoming hot and bitter with the perfumes scattered by the women's
dresses. Before long the predominant odour suggested that of a wet dog.
It must have been raining outside; one of those sudden spring showers
had no doubt fallen, for the last arrivals brought moisture with
them--their clothes hung about them heavily and seemed to steam as soon
as they encountered the heat of the gallery. And, indeed, patches of
darkness had for a moment been passing above the awning of the roof.
Claude, who raised his eyes, guessed that large clouds were galloping
onward lashed by the north wind, that driving rain was beating upon
the glass panes. Moire-like shadows darted along the walls, all
the paintings became dim, the spectators themselves were blended in
obscurity until the cloud was carried away, whereupon the painter
saw the heads again emerge from the twilight, ever agape with idiotic
rapture.

But there was another cup of bitterness in reserve for Claude. On the
left-hand panel, facing Fagerolles', he perceived Bongrand's picture.
And in front of that painting there was no crush whatever; the visitors
walked by with an air of indifference. Yet it was Bongrand's supreme
effort, the thrust he had been trying to give for years, a last work
conceived in his obstinate cra