‘You aren’t competent to speak on the subject!’
Then Fagerolles, beside himself, losing even the pliancy of his bantering disposition, retorted:
‘I’m as competent as you are.’
‘Shut up!’ resumed a comrade, a very irascible little painter with a fair complexion. ‘You surely don’t want to make us swallow such a turnip as that?’
Yes, yes, a turnip! They all repeated the word in tones of conviction—that word which they usually cast at the very worst smudges, at the pale, cold, glairy painting of daubers.
‘All right,’ at last said Fagerolles, clenching his teeth. ‘I demand the vote.’
Since the discussion had become envenomed, Mazel had been ringing his bell, extremely flushed at finding his authority ignored.
‘Gentlemen—come, gentlemen; it’s extraordinary that one can’t settle matters without shouting—I beg of you, gentlemen—’
At last he obtained a little silence. In reality, he was not a bad-hearted man. Why should not they admit that little picture, although he himself thought it execrable? They admitted so many others!
‘Come, gentlemen, the vote is asked for.’