went
off, however, and behind the gentleman's back she wafted kisses to the
whole party, a shower of kisses which quite upset the impressionable
Jory.

It was five o'clock, and the band ordered some more beer. Some of the
usual customers had taken possession of the adjacent tables, and these
philistines cast sidelong glances at the artists' corner, glances in
which contempt was curiously mingled with a kind of uneasy deference.
The artists were indeed well known; a legend was becoming current
respecting them. They themselves were now talking on common-place
subjects: about the heat, the difficulty of finding room in the omnibus
to the Odeon, and the discovery of a wine-shop where real meat was
obtainable. One of them wanted to start a discussion about a number of
idiotic pictures that had lately been hung in the Luxembourg Museum; but
there was only one opinion on the subject, that the pictures were not
worth their frames. Thereupon they left off conversing; they smoked,
merely exchanging a word or a significant smile now and then.

'Well,' asked Claude at last, 'are we going to wait for Gagniere?'

At this there was a protest. Gagniere was a bore. Besides, he would turn
up as soon as he smelt the soup.

'Let's be off, then,' said Sandoz. 'There's a leg of mutton this
evening, so let's try to be punctual.'

Each paid his score, and they all went out. Their departure threw the
cafe into a state of emotion. Some young fellows, painters, no doubt,
whispered together as they pointed at Claude, much in the same manner
as if he were the redoubtable chieftain of a horde of savages. Jory's
famous article was producing its effect; the very public was becoming
his accomplice, and of itself was soon to found that school of the open
air, which the band had so far only joked about. As they gaily said, the
Cafe Baudequin was not aware of the honour they had done it on the day
when they selected it to be the cradle of a revolution.

Fagerolles having reinforced the group, they now numbered five, and
slowly they took their way across Paris, with their tranquil look of
victory. The more numerous they were, the more did they stretch across
the pavement, and carry away on their heels the burning life of the
streets. When they had gone down the Rue de Clichy, they went straight
along the Rue de la Chaussee d'Antin, turned towards the Rue de
Richelieu, crossed the Seine by the Pont des Arts, so as to fling their
gibes at the Institu