The French are undoubtedly the most witty people in Europe, and perhaps in the whole world, but Paris is, all the same, the city for impostors and quacks to make a fortune.  When their knavery is found out people turn it into a joke and laugh, but in the midst of the merriment another mountebank makes his appearance, who does something more wonderful than those who preceded him, and he makes his fortune, whilst the scoffing of the people is in abeyance.  It is the unquestionable effects of the power which fashion has over that amiable, clever, and lively nation.  If anything is astonishing, no matter how extravagant it may be, the crowd is sure to welcome it greedily, for anyone would be afraid of being taken for a fool if he should exclaim, “It is impossible!” Physicians are, perhaps, the only men in France who know that an infinite gulf yawns between the will and the deed, whilst in Italy it is an axiom known to everybody; but I do not mean to say that the Italians are superior to the French.

A certain painter met with great success for some time by announcing a thing which was an impossibility—­namely, by pretending that he could take a portrait of a person without seeing the individual, and only from the description given.  But he wanted the description to be thoroughly accurate.  The result of it was that the portrait did greater honour to the person who gave the description than—­to the painter himself, but at the same time the informer found himself under the obligation of finding the likeness very good; otherwise the artist alleged the most legitimate excuse, and said that if the likeness was not perfect the fault was to be ascribed to the person who had given an imperfect description.

One evening I was taking supper at Silvia’s when one of the guests spoke of that wonderful new artist, without laughing, and with every appearance of believing the whole affair.

“That painter,” added he, “has already painted more than one hundred portraits, and they are all perfect likenesses.”

Everybody was of the same opinion; it was splendid.  I was the only one who, laughing heartily, took the liberty of saying it was absurd and impossible.  The gentleman who had brought the wonderful news, feeling angry, proposed a wager of one hundred louis.  I laughed all the more because his offer could not be accepted unless I exposed myself to being made a dupe.

“But the portraits are all admirable likenesses.”

“I do not believe it, or if they are then there must be cheating somewhere.”

But the gentleman, being bent upon convincing Silvia and me—­for she had taken my part proposed to make us dine with the artist; and we accepted.

The next day we called upon the painter, where we saw a quantity of portraits, all of which the artist claimed to be speaking likenesses; as we did not know the persons whom they represented we could not deny his claim.

“Sir,” said Silvia to the artist, “could you paint the likeness of my daughter without seeing her?”