It was the first time I had been into the attic of the old amateur.  Curtains stained with damp and hanging down in rags, a cold stove, a bed of straw, two broken chairs, composed all the furniture.  At the end of the room were a great number of prints in a heap, and paintings without frames turned against the wall.

At the moment I came in, the old man was making his dinner on some hard crusts of bread, which he was soaking in a glass of ‘eau sucree’.  He perceived that my eyes fell upon his hermit fare, and he looked a little ashamed.

“There is nothing to tempt you in my supper, neighbor,” said he, with a smile.

I replied that at least I thought it a very philosophical one for the Carnival.

M. Antoine shook his head, and went on again with his supper.

“Every one keeps his holidays in his own way,” resumed he, beginning again to dip a crust into his glass.  “There are several sorts of epicures, and not all feasts are meant to regale the palate; there are some also for the ears and the eyes.”

I looked involuntarily round me, as if to seek for the invisible banquet which could make up to him for such a supper.

Without doubt he understood me; for he got up slowly, and, with the magisterial air of a man confident in what he is about to do, he rummaged behind several picture frames, drew forth a painting, over which he passed his hand, and silently placed it under the light of the lamp.

It represented a fine-looking old man, seated at table with his wife, his daughter, and his children, and singing to the accompaniment of musicians who appeared in the background.  At first sight I recognized the subject, which I had often admired at the Louvre, and I declared it to be a splendid copy of Jordaens.

“A copy!” cried M. Antoine; “say an original, neighbor, and an original retouched by Rubens!  Look closer at the head of the old man, the dress of the young woman, and the accessories.  One can count the pencil-strokes of the Hercules of painters.  It is not only a masterpiece, sir; it is a treasure—­a relic!  The picture at the Louvre may be a pearl, this is a diamond!”

And resting it against the stove, so as to place it in the best light, he fell again to soaking his crusts, without taking his eyes off the wonderful picture.  One would have said that the sight of it gave the crusts an unexpected relish, for he chewed them slowly, and emptied his glass by little sips.  His shrivelled features became smooth, his nostrils expanded; it was indeed, as he said himself, “a feast for the eyes.”

“You see that I also have my treat,” he resumed, nodding his head with an air of triumph.  “Others may run after dinners and balls; as for me, this is the pleasure I give myself for my Carnival.”

“But if this painting is really so precious,” replied I, “it ought to be worth a high price.”

“Eh! eh!” said M. Antoine, with an air of proud indifference.  “In good times, a good judge might value it at somewhere about twenty thousand francs.”