“Ah but, monsieur,” said Afra, “you should be satisfied, and leave some little honor for the rest of us to gather.  The stories one hears of your youth are like fairy-tales.”

“And they are true,” replied the artist with evident enjoyment.  “In those days I was pointed out to people when I walked the street; which, by the way, gave rise to an odd incident.  A gentleman thought he had seen me in a crowd, but he had taken an older and taller man for the great painter.  He believed big pictures were painted by big men, and I had not then my present circumference.  This gentleman sent me an invitation to dine with him.  On the day appointed I arrived at the house, and was met at the door by my host, a look of surprise and annoyance on his face which he tried to conceal by a low bow, at the same time asking politely, ’How is your father?’—­’Very well, thank you,’ I returned, although I could not understand why my father’s health should be a matter of interest to him.—­’You have come to tell me of some catastrophe which prevents his attendance here to-day?’—­’Not at all:  I have come to dine with you, according to this invitation.’  Here I pulled out the card, which I happened to have in my pocket.—­’Are you the person here addressed?’ he said, staring at me.—­’I am’.—­’I beg your pardon, there is a mistake:  I meant it for your father, the painter of the “Decadence des Romains."’—­’I am the painter of the “Decadence,” but I am not my father.’—­’You ought to be an older man.’—­’I should have been, monsieur, had I been born sooner.’—­At that moment a friend, overhearing the conversation and divining the cause, came and explained to my wonder-struck host that I was really the artist in question.  With many apologies I was led into a hall adorned with floral arches in my honor, next to a beautiful salon, likewise decorated, and finally we reached the dining-room, which was arranged to represent my picture.  Columns wreathed with flowers supported the roof; flowers festooned the white table-linen and adorned the antique vessels that covered it; couches of different colored silk were laid after the Roman fashion for the guests to recline upon; and lovely women dressed in costly Roman costumes, their heads crowned with flowers, were placed in the attitudes that you will see on my celebrated canvas.  Was it not a graceful tribute to my genius?”

“If a Frenchman wants to pay a compliment, he never uses one that has done duty before, but invents something new,” said Afra emphatically.

“What are you painting now, monsieur?” I asked.

“A series of pictures called ‘Pierrot the Clown.’  He succeeds in tricking the world in every station of life.  I am just finishing his deathbed.  All his friends are weeping about him:  the doctor feels his pulse and gives some learned name to the disease—­doctors know so much—­while hidden everywhere around the room are empty bottles.  The drunken clown plays with even death for a mask.”