had had a fainting fit, and when, on being
called in by the woman, they had taken to rubbing him with so much
vigour that he had remained dead in their hands.

And if Christine failed to look amused at all this, Claude rose up and
said, in a churlish voice: 'Oh, you; nothing will make you laugh--let's
go to bed.'

He still adored her, but she no longer sufficed. Another torment had
invincibly seized hold of him--the passion for art, the thirst for fame.

In the spring, Claude, who, with an affectation of disdain, had sworn he
would never again exhibit, began to worry a great deal about the Salon.
Whenever he saw Sandoz he questioned him about what the comrades were
going to send. On the opening day he went to Paris and came back the
same evening, stern and trembling. There was only a bust by Mahoudeau,
said he, good enough, but of no importance. A small landscape by
Gagniere, admitted among the ruck, was also of a pretty sunny tone. Then
there was nothing else, nothing but Fagerolles' picture--an actress in
front of her looking-glass painting her face. He had not mentioned it at
first; but he now spoke of it with indignant laughter. What a trickster
that Fagerolles was! Now that he had missed his prize he was no longer
afraid to exhibit--he threw the School overboard; but you should have
seen how skilfully he managed it, what compromises he effected, painting
in a style which aped the audacity of truth without possessing one
original merit. And it would be sure to meet with success, the bourgeois
were only too fond of being titillated while the artist pretended to
hustle them. Ah! it was time indeed for a true artist to appear in that
mournful desert of a Salon, amid all the knaves and the fools. And, by
heavens, what a place might be taken there!

Christine, who listened while he grew angry, ended by faltering:

'If you liked, we might go back to Paris.'

'Who was talking of that?' he shouted. 'One can never say a word to you
but you at once jump to false conclusions.'

Six weeks afterwards he heard some news that occupied his mind for
a week. His friend Dubuche was going to marry Mademoiselle Regine
Margaillan, the daughter of the owner of La Richaudiere. It was
an intricate story, the details of which surprised and amused him
exceedingly. First of all, that cur Dubuche had managed to hook a medal
for a design of a villa in a park, which he had exhibited; that of
itself was already sufficiently amusing, as it w