His Masterpiece by Emile Zola (most inspirational books of all time txt) 📕

'That's A Daub Naudet Asked Me For. Oh! I'm Not Ignorant Of What I

Lack--A Little Of What You Have Too Much Of,  Old Man. You Know That

I'm Still Your Friend; Why,  I Defended You Only Yesterday With Some

Painters.'

He Tapped Claude On The Shoulders,  For He Had Divined His Old Master's

Secret Contempt,  And Wished To Win Him Back By His Old-Time Caresses

--All The Wheedling Practices Of A Hussy. Very Sincerely And With A

Sort Of Anxious Deference He Again Promised Claude That He Would Do

Everything In His Power To Further The Hanging Of His Picture,  'The

Dead Child.'

However,  Some People Arrived; More Than Fifteen Persons Came In And

Went Off In Less Than An Hour--Fathers Bringing Young Pupils,

Exhibitors Anxious To Say A Good Word On Their Own Behalf,  Friends Who

Wanted To Barter Influence,  Even Women Who Placed Their Talents Under

The Protection Of Their Charms. And One Should Have Seen The Painter

Play His Part As A Candidate,  Shaking Hands Most Lavishly,  Saying To

One Visitor: 'Your Picture This Year Is So Pretty,  It Pleases Me So

Much!' Then Feigning Astonishment With Another: 'What! You Haven't Had

A Medal Yet?' And Repeating To All Of Them: 'Ah! If I Belonged To The

Committee,  I'd Make Them Walk Straight.' He Sent Every One Away

Delighted,  Closed The Door Behind Each Visitor With An Air Of Extreme

Amiability,  Through Which,  However,  There Pierced The Secret Sneer Of

An Ex-Lounger On The Pavement.

'You See,  Eh?' He Said To Claude,  At A Moment When They Happened To Be

Left Alone. 'What A Lot Of Time I Lose With Those Idiots!'

Then He Approached The Large Window,  And Abruptly Opened One Of The

Casements; And On One Of The Balconies Of The House Over The Way A

Woman Clad In A Lace Dressing-Gown Could Be Distinguished Waving Her

Handkerchief. Fagerolles On His Side Waved His Hand Three Times In

Succession. Then Both Windows Were Closed Again.

Claude Had Recognised Irma; And Amid The Silence Which Fell Fagerolles

Quietly Explained Matters:

'It's Convenient,  You See,  One Can Correspond. We Have A Complete

System Of Telegraphy. She Wants To Speak To Me,  So I Must Go--'

Since He And Irma Had Resided In The Avenue,  They Met,  It Was Said,

On Their Old Footing. It Was Even Asserted That He,  So 'Cute,' So

Well-Acquainted With Parisian Humbug,  Let Himself Be Fleeced By Her,

Bled At Every Moment Of Some Good Round Sum,  Which She Sent Her Maid

To Ask For--Now To Pay A Tradesman,  Now To Satisfy A Whim,  Often For

Nothing At All,  Or Rather For The Sole Pleasure Of Emptying His

Pockets; And This Partly Explained His Embarrassed Circumstances,  His

Indebtedness,  Which Ever Increased Despite The Continuous Rise In The

Quotations Of His Canvases.

Claude Had Put On His Hat Again. Fagerolles Was Shuffling About

Impatiently,  Looking Nervously At The House Over The Way.

'I Don't Send You Off,  But You See She's Waiting For Me,' He Said,

'Well,  It's Understood,  Your Affair's Settled--That Is,  Unless I'm

Not Elected. Come To The Palais De L'industrie On The Evening The

Voting-Papers Are Counted. Oh! There Will Be A Regular Crush,  Quite A

Rumpus! Still,  You Will Always Learn If You Can Rely On Me.'

At First,  Claude Inwardly Swore That He Would Not Trouble About It.

Fagerolles' Protection Weighed Heavily Upon Him; And Yet,  In His Heart

Of Hearts,  He Really Had But One Fear,  That The Shifty Fellow Would

Not Keep His Promise,  But Would Ultimately Be Taken With A Fit Of

Cowardice At The Idea Of Protecting A Defeated Man. However,  On The

Day Of The Vote Claude Could Not Keep Still,  But Went And Roamed About

The Champs Elysees Under The Pretence Of Taking A Long Walk. He Might

As Well Go There As Elsewhere,  For While Waiting For The Salon He Had

Altogether Ceased Work. He Himself Could Not Vote,  As To Do So It Was

Necessary To Have Been 'Hung' On At Least One Occasion. However,  He

Repeatedly Passed Before The Palais De L'industrie,* The Foot Pavement

In Front Of Which Interested Him With Its Bustling Aspect,  Its

Procession Of Artist Electors,  Whom Men In Dirty Blouses Caught Hold

Of,  Shouting To Them The Titles Of Their Lists Of Candidates--Lists

Some Thirty In Number Emanating From Every Possible Coterie,  And

Representing Every Possible Opinion. There Was The List Of The Studios

Of The School Of Arts,  The Liberal List,  The List Of The

Uncompromising Radical Painters,  The Conciliatory List,  The Young

Painters' List,  Even The Ladies' List,  And So Forth. The Scene

Suggested All The Turmoil At The Door Of An Electoral Polling Booth On

The Morrow Of A Riot.

  * This Palace,  For Many Years The Home Of The 'Salon,' Was Built

    For The First Paris International Exhibition,  That Of 1855,

    And Demolished In Connection With That Of 1900.--Ed.

At Four O'clock In The Afternoon,  When The Voting Was Over,  Claude

Could Not Resist A Fit Of Curiosity To Go And Have A Look. The

Staircase Was Now Free,  And Whoever Chose Could Enter. Upstairs,  He

Came Upon The Huge Gallery,  Overlooking The Champs Elysees,  Which Was

Set Aside For The Hanging Committee. A Table,  Forty Feet Long,  Filled

The Centre Of This Gallery,  And Entire Trees Were Burning In The

Monumental Fireplace At One End Of It. Some Four Or Five Hundred

Electors,  Who Had Remained To See The Votes Counted,  Stood There,

Mingled With Friends And Inquisitive Strangers,  Talking,  Laughing,  And

Setting Quite A Storm Loose Under The Lofty Ceiling. Around The Table,

Parties Of People Who Had Volunteered To Count The Votes Were Already

Settled And At Work; There Were Some Fifteen Of These Parties In All,

Each Comprising A Chairman And Two Scrutineers. Three Or Four More

Remained To Be Organised,  And Nobody Else Offered Assistance; In Fact,

Every One Turned Away In Fear Of The Crushing Labour Which Would Rivet

The More Zealous People To The Spot Far Into The Night.

It Precisely Happened That Fagerolles,  Who Had Been In The Thick Of It

Since The Morning,  Was Gesticulating And Shouting,  Trying To Make

Himself Heard Above The Hubbub.

'Come,  Gentlemen,  We Need One More Man Here! Come,  Some Willing

Person,  Over Here!'

And At That Moment,  Perceiving Claude,  He Darted Forward And Forcibly

Dragged Him Off.

'Ah! As For You,  You Will Just Oblige Me By Sitting Down There And

Helping Us! It's For The Good Cause,  Dash It All!'

Claude Abruptly Found Himself Chairman Of One Of The Counting

Committees,  And Began To Perform His Functions With All The Gravity Of

A Timid Man,  Secretly Experiencing A Good Deal Of Emotion,  As If The

Hanging Of His Canvas Would Depend Upon The Conscientiousness He

Showed In His Work. He Called Out The Names Inscribed Upon The

Voting-Papers,  Which Were Passed To Him In Little Packets,  While The

Scrutineers,  On Sheets Of Paper Prepared For The Purpose,  Noted Each

Successive Vote That Each Candidate Obtained. And All This Went On

Amidst A Most Frightful Uproar,  Twenty And Thirty Names Being Called

Out At The Same Time By Different Voices,  Above The Continuous

Rumbling Of The Crowd. As Claude Could Never Do Anything Without

Throwing Passion Into It,  He Waxed Excited,  Became Despondent Whenever

A Voting-Paper Did Not Bear Fagerolles' Name,  And Grew Happy As Soon

As He Had To Shout Out That Name Once More. Moreover,  He Often Tasted

That Delight,  For His Friend Had Made Himself Popular,  Showing Himself

Everywhere,  Frequenting The Cafes Where Influential Groups Of Artists

Assembled,  Even Venturing To Expound His Opinions There,  And Binding

Himself To Young Artists,  Without Neglecting To Bow Very Low To The

Members Of The Institute. Thus There Was A General Current Of Sympathy

In His Favour. Fagerolles Was,  So To Say,  Everybody's Spoilt Child.

Night Came On At About Six O'clock That Rainy March Day. The

Assistants Brought Lamps; And Some Mistrustful Artists,  Who,  Gloomy

And Silent,  Were Watching The Counting Askance,  Drew Nearer. Others

Began To Play Jokes,  Imitated The Cries Of Animals,  Or Attempted A

_Tyrolienne_. But It Was Only At Eight O'clock,  When A Collation Of

Cold Meat And Wine Was Served,  That The Gaiety Reached Its Climax. The

Bottles Were Hastily Emptied,  The Men Stuffed Themselves With Whatever

They Were Lucky Enough To Get Hold Of,  And There Was A Free-And-Easy

Kind Of Kermesse In That Huge Hall Which The Logs In The Fireplace Lit

Up With A Forge-Like Glow. Then They All Smoked,  And The Smoke Set A

Kind Of Mist Around The Yellow Light From The Lamps,  Whilst On The

Floor Trailed All The Spoilt Voting-Papers Thrown Away During The

Polling; Indeed,  Quite A Layer Of Dirty Paper,  Together With Corks,

Breadcrumbs,  And A Few Broken Plates. The Heels Of Those Seated At The

Table Disappeared Amidst This Litter. Reserve Was Cast Aside; A Little

Sculptor With A Pale Face Climbed Upon A Chair To Harangue The

Assembly,  And A Painter,  With Stiff Moustaches Under A Hook Nose,

Bestrode A Chair And Galloped,  Bowing,  Round The Table,  In Mimicry Of

The Emperor.

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 Soiree

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