a number of
other little ones, a secluded suite visited by very few people, where
the pictures seemed to frown with boredom. And there again he found
nothing. Bewildered, distracted, he roamed about, went on to the garden
gallery, searching among the superabundant exhibits which overflowed
there, pallid and shivering in the crude light; and eventually, after
other distant excursions, he tumbled into the Gallery of Honour for the
third time.

There was now quite a crush there. All those who in any way create a
stir in Paris were assembled together--the celebrities, the wealthy, the
adored, talent, money and grace, the masters of romance, of the drama
and of journalism, clubmen, racing men and speculators, women of every
category, hussies, actresses and society belles. And Claude, angered by
his vain search, grew amazed at the vulgarity of the faces thus massed
together, at the incongruity of the toilets--but a few of which were
elegant, while so many were common looking--at the lack of majesty which
that vaunted 'society' displayed, to such a point, indeed, that the fear
which had made him tremble was changed into contempt. Were these the
people, then, who were going to jeer at his picture, provided it were
found again? Two little reporters with fair complexions were completing
a list of persons whose names they intended to mention. A critic
pretended to take some notes on the margin of his catalogue; another
was holding forth in professor's style in the centre of a party of
beginners; a third, all by himself, with his hands behind his back,
seemed rooted to one spot, crushing each work beneath his august
impassibility. And what especially struck Claude was the jostling
flock-like behaviour of the people, their banded curiosity in which
there was nothing youthful or passionate, the bitterness of their
voices, the weariness to be read on their faces, their general
appearance of suffering. Envy was already at work; there was the
gentleman who makes himself witty with the ladies; the one who, without
a word, looks, gives a terrible shrug of the shoulders, and then goes
off; and there were the two who remain for a quarter of an hour leaning
over the handrail, with their noses close to a little canvas, whispering
very low and exchanging the knowing glances of conspirators.

But Fagerolles had just appeared, and amid the continuous ebb and flow
of the groups there seemed to be no one left but him. With his hand
outstretched