“My dear fellow, you have said it already—­you needn’t say it again,” interrupted Valentin.

“Ay; but having said it—­having expressed myself, perchance with some obscurity....”

“With the obscurity of Erebus!” said, very deliberately, a fat student in a blouse.

“Monsieur!” exclaimed De Lepany, measuring the length and breadth of the fat student with a glance of withering scorn.

The Byzantine was no less indignant.

“Don’t heed them, mon ami!” he cried, enthusiastically.  “Thy definition is sublime-eloquent!”

“Nay,” said Valentin, “we concede that Monsieur de Lepany is sublime; we recognise with admiration that he is eloquent; but we submit that he is wholly unintelligible.”

And having delivered this parting shot, the club-footed realist slipped his arm through the arm of the fat student, and went off to a distant table and a game at dominoes.

Then followed an outburst of offended idealism.  His own clique crowded round Lepany as the champion of their school.  They shook hands with him.  They embraced him.  They fooled him to the top of his bent.  Presently, being not only as good-natured as he was conceited, but (rare phenomenon in the Quartier Latin!) a rich fellow into the bargain, De Lepany called for champagne and treated his admirers all around.

In the midst of the chatter and bustle which this incident occasioned, a pale, earnest-looking man of about five-and-thirty, coming past our table on his way out of the Cafe, touched Mueller on the arm, bent down, and said quietly:—­

“Mueller, will you do me a favor!”

“A hundred, Monsieur,” replied my companion; half rising, and with an air of unusual respect and alacrity.

“Thanks, one will be enough.  Do you see that man yonder, sitting alone in the corner, with his back to the light?”

“I do.”

“Good—­don’t look at him again, for fear of attracting his attention.  I have been trying for the last half hour to get a sketch of his head, but I think he suspected me.  Anyhow he moved so often, and so hid his face with his hands and the newspaper, that I was completely baffled.  Now it is a remarkable head—­just the head I have been wanting for my Marshal Romero—­and if, with your rapid pencil and your skill in seizing expression, you could manage this for me....”

“I will do my best,” said Mueller.

“A thousand thanks.  I will go now; for when I am gone he will be off his guard.  You will find me in the den up to three o’clock.  Adieu.”

Saying which, the stranger passed on, and went out.

“That’s Flandrin!” said Mueller.

“Really?” I said.  “Flandrin!  And you know him?”

But in truth I only answered thus to cover my own ignorance; for I knew little at that time of modern French art, and I had never even heard the name of Flandrin before.

“Know him!” echoed Mueller.  “I should think so.  Why, I worked in his studio for nearly two years.”