Hardly forty, he was of medium height, fairly stout, and with a good-natured look.  His head (very similar to those found in many Italian paintings of the sixteenth century), without being beautiful in the plastic sense of the word, gave an impression of great strength of character, power and intelligence.  Short hair stood up straight on the high, well-developed forehead.  A straight nose stopped short, as if cut off suddenly above the upper lip which was covered with a black mustache; over the whole chin was a closely-cropped beard.  The dark, often ironical look was piercing, one felt that behind it there was a mind always actively at work observing people, interpreting words, analyzing gestures, uncovering the heart.  This strong, round head was appropriate to his name, quick and short, with the bounding resonance of the two vowels.

When the journalist had fully explained his proposition, the writer answered him that he did not wish to make any definite arrangement, that he would, however, think the matter over, that his plans were not yet sufficiently defined.  Then he stopped.  It was a dismissal, and the two men, a little confused, arose.  A desire seized Patissot; he wished this well-known person to say something to him, anything, some word which he could repeat to his colleagues; and, growing bold, he stammered:  “Oh, monsieur!  If you knew how I appreciate your works!” The other bowed, but answered nothing.  Patissot became very bold and continued:  “It is a great honor for me to speak to you to-day.”  The writer once more bowed, but with a stiff and impatient look.  Patissot noticed it, and, completely losing his head, he added as he retreated:  “What a su—­su —­superb property!”

Then, in the heart of the man of letters, the landowner awoke, and, smiling, he opened the window to show them the immense stretch of view.  An endless horizon broadened out on all sides, giving a view of Triel, Pisse-Fontaine, Chanteloup, all the heights of Hautrie, and the Seine as far as the eye could see.  The two visitors, delighted, congratulated him, and the house was opened to them.  They saw everything, down to the dainty kitchen, whose walls and even ceilings were covered with porcelain tiles ornamented with blue designs, which excited the wonder of the farmers.

“How did you happen to buy this place?” asked the journalist.

The novelist explained that, while looking for a cottage to hire for the summer, he had found the little house, which was for sale for several thousand francs, a song, almost nothing.  He immediately bought it.

“But everything that you have added must have cost you a good deal!”

The writer smiled, and answered:  “Yes, quite a little.”

The two men left.  The journalist, taking Patissot by the arm, was philosophizing in a low voice: 

“Every general has his Waterloo,” he said; “every Balzac has his Jardies, and every artist living in the country feels like a landed proprietor.”