Patissot was filled with a boundless, triumphant joy; he wished to have the fish fried for himself alone.

During the dinner the friends grew still more intimate.  He learned that the fat gentleman lived at Argenteuil and had been sailing boats for thirty years without losing interest in the sport.  He accepted to take luncheon with him the following Sunday and to take a sail in his friend’s clipper, Plongeon.  He became so interested in the conversation that he forgot all about his catch.  He did not remember it until after the coffee, and he demanded that it be brought him.  It was alone in the middle of a platter, and looked like a yellow, twisted match, But he ate it with pride and relish, and at night, on the omnibus, he told his neighbors that he had caught fourteen pounds of fish during the day.

Two celebrities

Monsieur Patissot had promised his friend, the boating man, that he would spend the following Sunday with him.  An unforeseen occurrence changed his plan.  One evening, on the boulevard, he met one of his cousins whom he saw but very seldom.  He was a pleasant journalist, well received in all classes of society, who offered to show Patissot many interesting things.

“What are you going to do next Sunday?”

“I’m going boating at Argenteuil.”

“Come on!  Boating is an awful bore; there is no variety to it.  Listen —­I’ll take you along with me.  I’ll introduce you to two celebrities.  We will visit the homes of two artists.”

“But I have been ordered to go to the country!”

“That’s just where we’ll go.  On the way we’ll call on Meissonier, at his place in Poissy; then we’ll walk over to Medan, where Zola lives.  I have been commissioned to obtain his next novel for our newspaper.”

Patissot, wild with joy, accepted the invitation.  He even bought a new frock coat, as his own was too much worn to make a good appearance.  He was terribly afraid of saying something foolish either to the artist or to the man of letters, as do people who speak of an art which they have never professed.

He mentioned his fears to his cousin, who laughed and answered:  “Pshaw!  Just pay them compliments, nothing but compliments, always compliments; in that way, if you say anything foolish it will be overlooked.  Do you know Meissonier’s paintings?”

“I should say I do.”

“Have you read the Rougon-Macquart series?”

“From first to last.”

“That’s enough.  Mention a painting from time to time, speak of a novel here and there and add: 

“‘Superb!  Extraordinary!  Delightful technique!  Wonderfully powerful!’ In that way you can always get along.  I know that those two are very blase about everything, but admiration always pleases an artist.”

Sunday morning they left for Poissy.

Just a few steps from the station, at the end of the church square, they found Meissonier’s property.  After passing through a low door, painted red, which led into a beautiful alley of vines, the journalist stopped and, turning toward his companion, asked: