a long chain, which struck the solitary dot like a shot amid acclamations.  To show that he did not consider the feat a tour de force, the artist turned the paper, and taking the same marks drew a devil in an entirely different attitude, the difficult point being reached by his pitchfork.  This gave rise to a learned discussion as to whether the devil’s emblematic pitchfork was not a descendant of Neptune’s trident, which I did not stay to hear, as Afra whispered she wanted to present me to Monsieur C——­, and I was taken to a gentleman of no great height, but of such wondrous width that Nature must have formed him in a most generous mood.

“You are American?” said this wide man to me as I was introduced, and without waiting for a reply went on:  “I like your country-people:  they admire frankly.  Show them a picture, they exclaim, ’Beautiful! magnificent! lovely! exquisite! name your price;’ and they buy it.  Here the public look and look.  ‘Not bad,’ they say, ’but the color is from Veronese, and that attitude is surely Raphael’s.  What a mine that man’s genius has been to ambitious but less gifted artists!’ and so they go on.  I wish they would let the dead rest in peace.  Are you acquainted with Mr. B——­ of New York?”

I was obliged to say “No.”

“I wish to send a message to him,” he continued grandly:  “tell him that I paint now for him alone.”

“You are court-painter to Mr. B——­,” I remarked laughingly.

“Don’t speak of courts,” he exclaimed pettishly.  “I was to have painted the baptism of the prince imperial for the state:  it gave me no end of annoyance, and in the end was never finished.”

“I understood that you insisted on painting the little prince nude, after the Rubens manner, and that was one ground of objection to the design,” said Afra.

“The baby would have had on plenty of clothes:  one of his dresses was sent from the Tuileries for Monsieur C——­ to paint, and I sewed a rosette on it myself.”  This from the painter’s wife.

“A countryman of yours sat for the head of a young priest at the ceremony.  He had a fine countenance:  he was studying art with me at the time, and has since been professor of drawing at your Naval Academy.  Teaching is a sad trade—­Pegasus dragging the plough.”

“At least, your other great picture brought you nothing but praise.”

“The public have since repented of being so good to me.  Then, they could not say enough in my favor:  now, if a person asks what I am doing, every one repeats like a parrot, ’C——­ doesn’t paint, C——­ doesn’t paint.’  I have heard it so often that I begin to believe it myself, and when I am asked join the general cry, ’C——­ doesn’t paint.’”

I laughed, thinking this a joke, but I soon found that though C——­ might be cynical, sarcastic or bitter, though he might excite unintentional laughter by his remarks, he was too sensitive a man to take any but a serious view of life.  The imperfections of the world excited his disgust, his anger, never his mirth.