at it--admiring yourself!'

He, Chambouvard, exhibited that year an execrable 'Reaping Woman,' one
of those stupidly spoilt figures which seemed like hoaxes on his part,
so unworthy they were of his powerful hands; but he was none the less
radiant, feeling certain that he had turned out yet another masterpiece,
and promenading his god-like infallibility through the crowd which he
did not hear laughing at him.

Bongrand did not answer, but looked at him with eyes scorched by fever.

'And my machine downstairs?' continued the sculptor. 'Have you seen
it? The little fellows of nowadays may try it on, but we are the only
masters--we, old France!'

And thereupon he went off, followed by his court and bowing to the
astonished public.

'The brute!' muttered Bongrand, suffocating with grief, as indignant as
at the outburst of some low-bred fellow beside a deathbed.

He perceived Claude, and approached him. Was it not cowardly to flee
from this gallery? And he determined to show his courage, his lofty
soul, into which envy had never entered.

'Our friend Fagerolles has a success and no mistake,' he said. 'I
should be a hypocrite if I went into ecstasies over his picture, which
I scarcely like; but he himself is really a very nice fellow indeed.
Besides, you know how he exerted himself on your behalf.'

Claude was trying to find a word of admiration for the 'Village
Funeral.'

'The little cemetery in the background is so pretty!' he said at last.
'Is it possible that the public--'

But Bongrand interrupted him in a rough voice:

'No compliments of condolence, my friend, eh? I see clear enough.'

At this moment somebody nodded to them in a familiar way, and Claude
recognised Naudet--a Naudet who had grown and expanded, gilded by the
success of his colossal strokes of business. Ambition was turning his
head; he talked about sinking all the other picture dealers; he had
built himself a palace, in which he posed as the king of the market,
centralising masterpieces, and there opening large art shops of the
modern style. One heard a jingle of millions on the very threshold
of his hall; he held exhibitions there, even ran up other galleries
elsewhere; and each time that May came round, he awaited the visits
of the American amateurs whom he charged fifty thousand francs for a
picture which he himself had purchased for ten thousand. Moreover, he
lived in princely style, with a wife and children, a mistress, a country
estate