Bongrand did not answer, but looked at him with eyes scorched by fever.
‘And my machine downstairs?’ continued the sculptor. ‘Have you seen it? The little fellows of nowadays may try it on, but we are the only masters—we, old France!’
And thereupon he went off, followed by his court and bowing to the astonished public.
‘The brute!’ muttered Bongrand, suffocating with grief, as indignant as at the outburst of some low-bred fellow beside a deathbed.
He perceived Claude, and approached him. Was it not cowardly to flee from this gallery? And he determined to show his courage, his lofty soul, into which envy had never entered.
‘Our friend Fagerolles has a success and no mistake,’ he said. ‘I should be a hypocrite if I went into ecstasies over his picture, which I scarcely like; but he himself is really a very nice fellow indeed. Besides, you know how he exerted himself on your behalf.’
Claude was trying to find a word of admiration for the ‘Village Funeral.’
‘The little cemetery in the background is so pretty!’ he said at last. ‘Is it possible that the public—’
But Bongrand interrupted him in a rough voice:
‘No compliments of condolence, my friend, eh? I see clear enough.’