“What is your idea of Meissonier?”

Patissot hesitated.  At last he decided:  “A little man, well groomed, clean shaven, a soldierly appearance.”  The other smiled:  “All right, come along.”  A quaint building in the form of a chalet appeared to the left; and to the right side, almost opposite, was the main house.  It was a strange-looking building, where there was a mixture of everything, a mingling of Gothic fortress, manor, villa, hut, residence, cathedral, mosque, pyramid, a, weird combination of Eastern and Western architecture.  The style was complicated enough to set a classical architect crazy, and yet there was something whimsical and pretty about it.  It had been invented and built under the direction of the artist.

They went in; a collection of trunks encumbered a little parlor.  A little man appeared, dressed in a jumper.  The striking thing about him was his beard.  He bowed to the journalist, and said:  “My dear sir, I hope that you will excuse me; I only returned yesterday, and everything is all upset here.  Please be seated.”  The other refused, excusing himself:  “My dear master, I only dropped in to pay my respects while passing by.”  Patissot, very much embarrassed, was bowing at every word of his friend’s, as though moving automatically, and he murmured, stammering:  “What a su—­su—­superb property!” The artist, flattered, smiled, and suggested visiting it.

He led them first to a little pavilion of feudal aspect, where his former studio was.  Then they crossed a parlor, a dining-room, a vestibule full of beautiful works of art, of beautiful Beauvais, Gobelin and Flanders tapestries.  But the strange external luxury of ornamentation became, inside, a revel of immense stairways.  A magnificent grand stairway, a secret stairway in one tower, a servants’ stairway in another, stairways everywhere!  Patissot, by chance, opened a door and stepped back astonished.  It was a veritable temple, this place of which respectable people only mention the name in English, an original and charming sanctuary in exquisite taste, fitted up like a pagoda, and the decoration of which must certainly have caused a great effort.

They next visited the park, which was complex, varied, with winding paths and full of old trees.  But the journalist insisted on leaving; and, with many thanks, he took leave of the master:  As they left they met a gardener; Patissot asked him:  “Has Monsieur Meissonier owned this place for a long time?” The man answered:  “Oh, monsieur! that needs explaining.  I guess he bought the grounds in 1846.  But, as for the house! he has already torn down and rebuilt that five or six times.  It must have cost him at least two millions!” As Patissot left he was seized with an immense respect for this man, not on account of his success, glory or talent, but for putting so much money into a whim, because the bourgeois deprive themselves of all pleasure in order to hoard money.

After crossing Poissy, they struck out on foot along the road to Medan.  The road first followed the Seine, which is dotted with charming islands at this place.  Then they went up a hill and crossed the pretty village of Villaines, went down a little; and finally reached the neighborhood inhabited by the author of the Rougon-Macquart series.