We were getting near.  Crowds were on their way to the exhibition from all sides, women in spring frocks, many of the men in white waistcoats, one hand in pocket, gayly flourishing their canes with the other, as much as to say, “Look at me-well-to-do, jaunty, and out in fine weather.”  The turnstiles were crowded, but at last we got through.  We made but one step across the gravel court, the realm of sculpture where antique gods in every posture formed a mythological circle round the modern busts in the central walk.  There was no loitering here, for my heart was elsewhere.  We cast a look at an old wounded Gaul, an ancestor unhonored by the crowd, and started up the staircase—­no Jeanne to lead the way.  We came to the first room of paintings.  Sylvestre beamed like a man who feels at home.

“Quick, Sylvestre, where is the sketch?  Let’s hurry to it.”

But he dragged me with him around several rooms.

Have you ever experienced the intoxication of color which seizes the uninitiated at the door of a picture-gallery?  So many staring hues impinge upon the eyes, so many ideas take confused shape and struggle together in the brain, that the eyes grow weary and the brain harassed.  It hovers undecided like an insect in a meadow full of flowers.  The buzzing remarks of the crowd add to the feeling of intoxication.  They distract one’s attention before it can settle anywhere, and carry it off to where some group is gathered before a great name, a costly frame, an enormous canvas, or an outrage on taste; twenty men on a gallows against a yellow sky, with twenty crows hovering over them, or an aged antediluvian, some mighty hunter, completely nude and with no property beyond a loaded club.  One turns away, and the struggle begins again between the eye, attracted by a hundred subjects, and the brain, which would prefer to study one.

With Lampron this danger has no existence; he takes in a room at a glance.  He has the sportsman’s eye which, in a covey of partridges, marks its bird at a glance.  He never hesitates.  “That is the thing to make for,” he says, “come along”—­and we make for it.  He plants himself right in front of the picture, with both hands in his overcoat pockets, and his chin sunk in his collar; says nothing, but is quite happy developing an idea which has occurred to him on his way to it; comparing the picture before him with some former work by the same artist which he remembers.  His whole soul is concentrated on the picture.  And when he considers that I have understood and penetrated the meaning of the work, he gives his opinion in few words, but always the right ones, summing up a long sequence of ideas which I must have shared with him, since I see exactly as he does.

In this way we halted before the “Martyrdom of Saint Denis,” by Bonnat, the two “Adorations,” by Bouguereau, a landscape of Bernier’s, some other landscapes, sea pieces, and portraits.

At last we left the oil paintings.