Just then Jory, in view of lending importance to himself, called Fagerolles’ attention to a recently published article; he pretended that he had made Fagerolles just as he pretended that he had made Claude. ‘I say, have you read that article of Vernier’s about yourself? There’s another fellow who repeats my ideas!’ ‘Ah, he does get articles, and no mistake!’ sighed Mahoudeau. Fagerolles made a careless gesture, but he smiled with secret contempt for all those poor beggars who were so utterly deficient in shrewdness that they clung, like simpletons, to their crude style, when it was so easy to conquer the crowd. Had it not sufficed for him to break with them, after pillaging them, to make his own fortune? He benefited by all the hatred that folks had against them; his pictures, of a softened, attenuated style, were held up in praise, so as to deal the death-blow to their ever obstinately violent works. ‘Have you read Vernier’s article?’ asked Jory of Gagnière. ‘Doesn’t he say exactly what I said?’ For the last few moments Gagnière had been absorbed in contemplating his glass, the wine in which cast a ruddy reflection on the white tablecloth. He started: ‘Eh, what, Vernier’s article?’ ‘Why, yes; in fact, all those articles which appear about Fagerolles.’ Gagnière in amazement turned to the painter. ‘What, are they writing articles about you? I know nothing about them, I haven’t seen them. Ah! they are writing articles about you, but whatever for?’ There was a mad roar of laughter. Fagerolles alone grinned with an ill grace, for he fancied himself the butt of some spiteful joke. But Gagnière spoke in absolute good faith. He felt surprised at the success of a painter who did not even observe the laws regulating the value of tints. Success for that trickster! Never! For in that case what would become of conscientiousness? This boisterous hilarity enlivened the end of the dinner. They all left off eating, though the mistress of the house still insisted upon filling their plates. ‘My dear, do attend to them,’ she kept saying to Sandoz, who had grown greatly excited amidst the din. ‘Just stretch out your hand; the biscuits are on the side-board.’ They all declined anything more, and rose up. As the rest of the evening was to be spent there, round the table, drinking tea, they leaned back against the walls and continued chatting while the servant cleared away. The young couple assisted, Henriette putting the salt-cellars in a drawer, and Sandoz helping to fold the cloth. ‘You can smoke,’ said Henriette. ‘You know that it doesn’t inconvenience me in the least.’ Fagerolles, who had drawn Claude into the window recess, offered him a cigar, which was declined. ‘True, I forgot; you don’t smoke. Ah! I say, I must go to see what you have brought back with you. Some very interesting things, no doubt. You know what I think of your talent. You are the cleverest of us all.’