His Masterpiece, Émile Zola [essential reading txt] 📗

by lucky strokes as on ’Change⁠—slipped through the artist’s fingers, and was spent without trace of it remaining. Moreover, Fagerolles, still in the full flush of his sudden good fortune, did not calculate or worry, being confident that he would always sell his works at higher and higher prices, and feeling glorious at the high position he was acquiring in contemporary art.

Eventually, Claude espied a little canvas on an ebony easel, draped with red plush. Excepting a rosewood tube case and box of crayons, forgotten on an article of furniture, nothing reminding one of the artistic profession could be seen lying about.

“Very finely treated,” said Claude, wishing to be amiable, as he stood in front of the little canvas. “And is your picture for the Salon sent?”

“Ah! yes, thank heavens! What a number of people I had here! A perfect procession which kept me on my legs from morning till evening during a week. I didn’t want to exhibit it, as it lowers one to do so, and Naudet also opposed it. But what would you have done? I was so begged and prayed; all the young fellows want to set me on the committee, so that I may defend them. Oh! my picture is simple enough⁠—I call it A Picnic. There are a couple of gentlemen and three ladies under some trees⁠—guests at some château, who have brought a collation with them and are eating it in a glade. You’ll see, it’s rather original.”

He spoke in a hesitating manner, and when his eyes met those of Claude, who was looking at him fixedly, he lost countenance altogether, and joked about the little canvas on the easel.

“That’s a daub Naudet asked me for. Oh! I’m not ignorant of what I lack⁠—a little of what you have too much of, old man. You know that I’m still your friend; why, I defended you only yesterday with some painters.”

He tapped Claude on the shoulders, for he had divined his old master’s secret contempt, and wished to win him back by his old-time caresses⁠—all the wheedling practices of a hussy. Very sincerely and with a sort of anxious deference he again promised Claude that he would do everything in his power to further the hanging of his picture, The Dead Child.

However, some people arrived; more than fifteen persons came in and went off in less than an hour⁠—fathers bringing young pupils, exhibitors anxious to say a good word on their own behalf, friends who wanted to barter influence, even women who placed their talents under the protection of their charms. And one should have seen the painter play his part as a candidate, shaking hands most lavishly, saying to one visitor: “Your picture this year is so pretty, it pleases me so much!” then feigning astonishment with another: “What! you haven’t had a medal yet?” and repeating to all of them: “Ah! If I belonged to the committee, I’d make them walk straight.” He sent everyone away delighted, closed the door behind each visitor with an air of extreme amiability, through which, however, there pierced the secret sneer of an ex-lounger on the pavement.

“You see, eh?” he said to Claude, at a moment when they happened to be left alone. “What a lot of time I lose with those idiots!”

Then he approached the large window, and abruptly opened one of the casements; and on one of the balconies of the house over the way a woman clad in a lace dressing-gown could be distinguished waving her handkerchief. Fagerolles on his side waved his hand three times in succession. Then both windows were closed again.

Claude had recognised Irma; and amid the silence which fell Fagerolles quietly explained matters:

“It’s convenient, you see, one can correspond. We have a complete system of telegraphy. She wants to speak to me, so I must go⁠—”

Since he and Irma had resided in the avenue, they met, it was said, on their old footing. It was even asserted that he, so “cute,” so well-acquainted with Parisian humbug, let himself be fleeced by her, bled at every moment of some good round sum, which she sent her maid to ask for⁠—now to pay a tradesman, now to satisfy a whim, often for nothing at all, or rather for the sole pleasure of emptying his pockets; and this partly explained his embarrassed circumstances, his indebtedness, which ever increased despite the continuous rise in the quotations of his canvases.

Claude had put on his hat again. Fagerolles was shuffling about impatiently, looking nervously at the house over the way.

“I don’t send you off, but you see she’s waiting for me,” he said, “Well, it’s understood, your affair’s settled⁠—that is, unless I’m not elected. Come to the Palais de l’Industrie on the evening the voting-papers are counted. Oh! there will be a regular crush, quite a rumpus! Still, you will always learn if you can rely on me.”

At first, Claude inwardly swore that he would not trouble about it. Fagerolles’ protection weighed heavily upon him; and yet, in his heart of hearts, he really had but one fear, that the shifty fellow would not keep his promise, but would ultimately be taken with a fit of cowardice at the idea of protecting a defeated man. However, on the day of the vote Claude could not keep still, but went and roamed about the Champs Élysées under the pretence of taking a long walk. He might as well go there as elsewhere, for while waiting for the Salon he had altogether ceased work. He himself could not vote, as to do so it was necessary to have been “hung” on at least one occasion. However, he repeatedly passed before the Palais de l’Industrie,11 the foot pavement in front of which interested him with its bustling aspect, its procession of artist electors, whom men in dirty blouses caught hold of, shouting to them the titles of their lists of candidates⁠—lists some thirty in number emanating from every possible coterie, and representing every