Not one of the guests, however, had noticed her leave the room. Mahoudeau and Gagnière were now talking about Fagerolles; showing themselves covertly bitter, without openly attacking him. As yet they contented themselves with ironical glances and shrugs of the shoulders--all the silent contempt of fellows who don’t wish to slash a chum. Then they fell back on Claude; they prostrated themselves before him, overwhelmed him with the hopes they set in him. Ah! it was high time for him to come back, for he alone, with his great gifts, his vigorous touch, could become the master, the recognised chief. Since the Salon of the Rejected the ‘school of the open air’ had increased in numbers; a growing influence was making itself felt; but unfortunately, the efforts were frittered away; the new recruits contented themselves with producing sketches, impressions thrown off with a few strokes of the brush; they were awaiting the necessary man of genius, the one who would incarnate the new formula in masterpieces. What a position to take! to master the multitude, to open up a century, to create a new art! Claude listened to them, with his eyes turned to the floor and his face very pale. Yes, that indeed was his unavowed dream, the ambition he dared not confess to himself. Only, with the delight that the flattery caused him, there was mingled a strange anguish, a dread of the future, as he heard them raising him to the position of dictator, as if he had already triumphed. ‘Don’t,’ he exclaimed at last; ‘there are others as good as myself. I am still seeking my real line.’ Jory, who felt annoyed, was smoking in silence. Suddenly, as the others obstinately kept at it, he could not refrain from remarking: ‘All this, my boys, is because you are vexed at Fagerolles’ success.’ They energetically denied it; they burst out in protestations. Fagerolles, the young master! What a good joke! ‘Oh, you are turning your back upon us, we know it,’ said Mahoudeau. ‘There’s no fear of your writing a line about us nowadays.’ ‘Well, my dear fellow,’ answered Jory, vexed, ‘everything I write about you is cut out. You make yourselves hated everywhere. Ah! if I had a paper of my own!’