Autobiographical fiction; Impressionist artists -- France -- Paris -- Fiction; Paris (France) -- Intellectual life -- Fiction
Little by little, however, a good many grew tired and went off. At
eleven o’clock there were not more than a couple of hundred persons
present. Past midnight, however, some more people arrived, loungers in
dress-coats and white ties, who had come from some theatre or soirée
and wished to learn the result of the voting before all Paris knew it.
Reporters also appeared; and they could be seen darting one by one out
of the room as soon as a partial result was communicated to them.
Claude, hoarse by now, still went on calling names. The smoke and the
heat became intolerable, a smell like that of a cow-house rose from
the muddy litter on the floor. One o’clock, two o’clock in the morning
struck, and he was still unfolding voting-papers, the conscientiousness
which he displayed delaying him to such a point that the other parties
had long since finished their work, while his was still a maze of
figures. At last all the additions were centralised and the definite
result proclaimed. Fagerolles was elected, coming fifteenth among forty,
or five places ahead of Bongrand, who had been a candidate on the same
list, but whose name must have been frequently struck out. And daylight
was breaking when Claude reached home in the Rue Tourlaque, feeling both
worn out and delighted.
Then, for a couple of weeks he lived in a state of anxiety. A dozen
times he had the idea of going to Fagerolles’ for information, but a
feeling of shame restrained him. Besides, as the committee proceeded
in alphabetical order, nothing perhaps was yet decided. However, one
evening, on the Boulevard de Clichy, he felt his heart thump as he saw
two broad shoulders, with whose lolloping motion he was well acquainted,
coming towards him.
They were the shoulders of Bongrand, who seemed embarrassed. He was the
first to speak, and said:
‘You know matters aren’t progressing very well over yonder with those
brutes. But everything isn’t lost. Fagerolles and I are on the watch.
Still, you must rely on Fagerolles; as for me, my dear fellow, I am
awfully afraid of compromising your chances.’
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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