At this the bookbinder, who was just going, stopped with an oath, and stamped his foot.  “Am I to spend my Carnival in heating water for footbaths, pray?”

“You must not leave your comrade to die without help!” I replied.

“Let him go to the hospital, then!”

“How can he by himself?”

Pierre seemed to make up his mind.

“Well, I’m going to take him,” resumed he; “besides, I shall get rid of him sooner.  Come, get up, comrade!” He shook his comrade, who had not taken off his clothes.  I observed that he was too weak to walk, but the bookbinder would not listen:  he made him get up, and half dragged, half supported him to the lodge of the porter, who ran for a hackney carriage.  I saw the sick man get into it, almost fainting, with the impatient waterman; and they both set off, one perhaps to die, the other to dine at Courtville Gardens!

Six o’clock.—­I have been to knock at my neighbor’s door, who opened it himself; and I have given him his letter, finished at last, and directed to his son’s widow.  M. Antoine thanked me gratefully, and made me sit down.

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!”