The studio was perched high up in the Passage des Panoramas.  There I found M. Julien, a typical meridional—­the large stomach, the dark eyes, crafty and watchful; the seductively mendacious manner, the sensual mind.  We made friends at once—­he consciously making use of me, I unconsciously making use of him.  To him my forty francs, a month’s subscription, were a godsend, nor were my invitations to dinner and to the theatre to be disdained.  I was curious, odd, quaint.  To be sure, it was a little tiresome to have to put up with a talkative person, whose knowledge of the French language had been acquired in three months, but the dinners were good.  No doubt Julien reasoned so; I did not reason at all.  I felt this crafty, clever man of the world was necessary to me.  I had never met such a man before, and all my curiosity was awake.  He spoke of art and literature, of the world and the flesh; he told me of the books he had read, he narrated thrilling incidents in his own life; and the moral reflections with which he sprinkled his conversation I thought very striking.  Like every young man of twenty, I was on the look-out for something to set up that would do duty for an ideal.  The world was to me, at this time, what a toy shop had been fifteen years before:  everything was spick and span, and every illusion was set out straight and smart in new paint and gilding.  But Julien kept me at a distance, and the rare occasions when he favoured me with his society only served to prepare my mind for the friendship which awaited me, and which was destined to absorb some years of my life.

In the studio there were some eighteen or twenty young men, and among these there were some four or five from whom I could learn; and there were also there some eight or nine young English girls.  We sat round in a circle, and drew from the model.  And this reversal of all the world’s opinions and prejudices was to me singularly delightful; I loved the sense of unreality that the exceptionalness of our life in this studio conveyed.  Besides, the women themselves were young and interesting, and were, therefore, one of the charms of the place, giving, as they did, that sense of sex which is so subtle a mental pleasure, and which is, in its outward aspect, so interesting to the eye—­the gowns, the hair lifted, showing the neck; the earrings, the sleeves open at the elbow.  Though all this was very dear to me I did not fall in love:  but he who escapes a woman’s dominion generally comes under the sway of some friend who ever uses a strange attractiveness, and fosters a sort of dependency that is not healthful or valid:  and although I look back with undiminished delight on the friendship I contracted about this time—­a friendship which permeated and added to my life—­I am nevertheless forced to recognise that, however suitable it may have been in my special case, in the majority of instances it would have proved but a shipwrecking reef, on which a young man’s life would have gone to pieces.  What saved me was the intensity of my passion for Art, and a moral revolt against any action that I thought could or would definitely compromise me in that direction.  I was willing to stray a little from my path, but never further than a single step, which I could retrace when I pleased.