Paul was offended at this familiar greeting.  “I have had many worries and disappointments,” said he.

“And Rose,” said Andre, “how is she—­as pretty as ever, I suppose?”

“Yes, yes,” answered Paul negligently; “but you must forgive me for having vanished so suddenly.  I have come to repay your loan, with many thanks.”

“Pshaw!” returned the painter, “I never thought of the matter again; pray, do not inconvenience yourself.”

Again Paul felt annoyed, for he fancied that under the cloak of assumed generosity the painter meant to humiliate him; and the opportunity of airing his newly-found grandeur occurred to him.

“It was a convenience to me, certainly,” said he, “but I am all right now, having a salary of twelve thousand francs.”

He thought that the artist would be dazzled, and that the mention of this sum would draw from him some exclamations of surprise and envy.  Andre, however, made no reply, and Paul was obliged to wind up with the lame conclusion, “And at my age that is not so bad.”

“I should call it superb.  Should I be indiscreet in asking what you are doing?”

The question was a most natural one, but Paul could not reply to it, as he was entirely ignorant as to what his employment was to be, and he felt as angry as if the painter had wantonly insulted him.

“I work for it,” said he, drawing himself up with such a strange expression of voice and feature that Andre could not fail to notice it.

“I work too,” remarked he; “I am never idle.”

“But I have to work very hard,” returned Paul, “for I have not, like you, a friend or protector to interest himself in me.”

Paul, who had not a particle of gratitude in his disposition, had entirely forgotten Mascarin.

The artist was much amused by this speech.  “And where do you think that a foundling, as I am, would find a protector?”

Paul opened his eyes.  “What,” said he, “are you one of those?”

“I am; I make no secret of it, hoping that there is no occasion for me to feel shame, though there may be for grief.  All my friends know this; and I am surprised that you are not aware that I am simply a foundling from the Hopital de Vendome.  Up to twelve years of age I was perfectly happy, and the master praised me for the knack I had of acquiring knowledge.  I used to work in the garden by day, and in the evening I wasted reams of paper; for I had made up my mind to be an artist.  But nothing goes easily in this world, and one day the lady superintendent conceived the idea of apprenticing me to a tanner.”

Paul, who had taken a seat on the divan in order to listen, here commenced making a cigarette; but Andre stopped him.  “Excuse me; but will you oblige me by not smoking?”

Paul tossed the cigarette aside, though he was a little surprised, as the painter was an inveterate smoker.  “All right,” said he, “but continue your story.”