The lamps were lighted, and the salads were being made in Origny Sainte-Benoite by the river.

ORIGNY SAINTE-BENOITE

THE COMPANY AT TABLE

Although we came late for dinner, the company at table treated us to sparkling wine.  ‘That is how we are in France,’ said one.  ‘Those who sit down with us are our friends.’  And the rest applauded.

They were three altogether, and an odd trio to pass the Sunday with.

Two of them were guests like ourselves, both men of the north.  One ruddy, and of a full habit of body, with copious black hair and beard, the intrepid hunter of France, who thought nothing so small, not even a lark or a minnow, but he might vindicate his prowess by its capture.  For such a great, healthy man, his hair flourishing like Samson’s, his arteries running buckets of red blood, to boast of these infinitesimal exploits, produced a feeling of disproportion in the world, as when a steam-hammer is set to cracking nuts.  The other was a quiet, subdued person, blond and lymphatic and sad, with something the look of a Dane:  ’Tristes tetes de Danois!’ as Gaston Lafenestre used to say.

I must not let that name go by without a word for the best of all good fellows now gone down into the dust.  We shall never again see Gaston in his forest costume—­he was Gaston with all the world, in affection, not in disrespect—­nor hear him wake the echoes of Fontainebleau with the woodland horn.  Never again shall his kind smile put peace among all races of artistic men, and make the Englishman at home in France.  Never more shall the sheep, who were not more innocent at heart than he, sit all unconsciously for his industrious pencil.  He died too early, at the very moment when he was beginning to put forth fresh sprouts, and blossom into something worthy of himself; and yet none who knew him will think he lived in vain.  I never knew a man so little, for whom yet I had so much affection; and I find it a good test of others, how much they had learned to understand and value him.  His was indeed a good influence in life while he was still among us; he had a fresh laugh, it did you good to see him; and however sad he may have been at heart, he always bore a bold and cheerful countenance, and took fortune’s worst as it were the showers of spring.  But now his mother sits alone by the side of Fontainebleau woods, where he gathered mushrooms in his hardy and penurious youth.

Many of his pictures found their way across the Channel:  besides those which were stolen, when a dastardly Yankee left him alone in London with two English pence, and perhaps twice as many words of English.  If any one who reads these lines should have a scene of sheep, in the manner of Jacques, with this fine creature’s signature, let him tell himself that one of the kindest and bravest of men has lent a hand to decorate his lodging.  There may be better pictures in the National Gallery; but not a painter among the generations had a better heart.  Precious in the sight of the Lord of humanity, the Psalms tell us, is the death of his saints.  It had need to be precious; for it is very costly, when by the stroke, a mother is left desolate, and the peace-maker, and peace-looker, of a whole society is laid in the ground with Caesar and the Twelve Apostles.