“Yes,” said Rufin, “it is strange.”

It was clearly hopeless to try to extract any real information from Papa Musard; that veteran was fortified with prejudices.  Rufin resigned himself to the inevitable; and, although he was burning with eagerness to find the painter of the picture he had recently seen, to welcome him into the sunlight of fame and success, he bent his mind to the interview with Papa Musard.

“I have had my part in the development of Art,” the invalid was saying at the end of three-quarters of an hour.  “Perhaps I have not had my full share of recognition.  Since Corot, no artist has been magnanimous; they have become tradesmen, shopkeepers.”

“You are hard on us, Musard,” said Rufin.  “We’re a bad lot, but we do our best.  Here is a small matter of money that may help to make you comfortable.  I’m sorry you have such an unpleasant neighbor.”

“You are going?” demanded Musard.

“I must,” said Rufin.  “To-morrow I go into the country for some weeks, and nothing is packed yet.”

“Corot would not have left an old man to die in solitude,” remarked Musard thoughtfully.

Rufin smiled regretfully and got away while he could.  Papa Musard in an hour could wear down even his patience.

The painter’s room was still unlocked and unoccupied as he descended the stairs; he entered it for another look at the picture.  He needed to confirm his memory, to be assured that he had not endowed the work with virtue not its own.  The trivial, cheaply pretty face fronted him again, with its little artificial graces only half-masking the sore, tormented femininity behind it.  Yes, it was the true art, the poignant vision, a thing belonging to all time.

In the courtyard the fat concierge was awake, in a torpid fashion, and knitting.  She lifted her greedy and tyrannical eyes at the tall figure of Rufin, with its suggestion of splendors and dignities.  But she was not much more informative than Papa Musard had been.

“Oh, the painter!” she exclaimed, when she understood who was in question.  “Ah, M’sieur, it is two days since I have seen him.  He is not of a punctual habit—­no!  How often have I waked in the blackness of night, upon a frightful uproar of the bell, to admit him, and he making observations at the top of his voice that would cause a fish to blush!  An Italian, M’sieur—­yes!  But all the same it astonishes no one when he is away for two days.”

“The Italians are like that,” generalized Rufin unscrupulously.  “His door is unlocked, Madame, and there is a picture in his room which is—­well, valuable.”

“He sold the key,” lamented Madame, “and the catches of the window, and the bell-push, and a bucket of mine which I had neglected to watch.  And he called me a she-camel when I remonstrated.”

“In Italian it is a mere jest,” Rufin assured her.  “See, Madame, this is my card, which I beg you to give him.  I am obliged to leave Paris to-morrow, but on my return I shall have the honor to call on him.  And this is a five-franc piece!”