Claude grew pale. A great joy choked him, while he pretended to receive the news with composure. Bongrand’s words came back to him. He began to believe that he possessed genius.
‘Hallo, how are you?’ continued Jory, shaking hands with the others.
And, without more ado, he, Fagerolles and Gagnière surrounded Irma, who smiled on them in a good-natured way.
‘Perhaps you’ll tell us where the picture is,’ said Sandoz, impatiently. ‘Take us to it.’
Jory assumed the lead, followed by the band. They had to fight their way into the last gallery. But Claude, who brought up the rear, still heard the laughter that rose on the air, a swelling clamour, the roll of a tide near its full. And as he finally entered the room, he beheld a vast, swarming, closely packed crowd pressing eagerly in front of his picture. All the laughter arose, spread, and ended there. And it was his picture that was being laughed at.
‘Eh!’ repeated Jory, triumphantly, ‘there’s a success for you.’
Gagnière, intimidated, as ashamed as if he himself had been slapped, muttered: ‘Too much of a success—I should prefer something different.’
‘What a fool you are,’ replied Jory, in a burst of exalted conviction. ‘That’s what I call success. Does it matter a curse if they laugh? We have made our mark; to-morrow every paper will talk about us.’
‘The idiots,’ was all that Sandoz could gasp, choking with grief.
Fagerolles, disinterested and dignified like a family friend following a funeral procession, said nothing. Irma alone remained gay, thinking it all very funny. And, with a caressing gesture, she leant against the shoulder of the derided painter, and whispered softly in his ear: ‘Don’t fret, my boy. It’s all humbug, be merry all the same.’