To be even one of the outskirters of art, leaves a fine stamp on a man’s countenance.  I remember once dining with a party in the inn at Chateau Landon.  Most of them were unmistakable bagmen; others well-to-do peasantry; but there was one young fellow in a blouse, whose face stood out from among the rest surprisingly.  It looked more finished; more of the spirit looked out through it; it had a living, expressive air, and you could see that his eyes took things in.  My companion and I wondered greatly who and what he could be.  It was fair-time in Chateau Landon, and when we went along to the booths, we had our question answered; for there was our friend busily fiddling for the peasants to caper to.  He was a wandering violinist.

A troop of strollers once came to the inn where I was staying, in the department of Seine et Marne.  There was a father and mother; two daughters, brazen, blowsy hussies, who sang and acted, without an idea of how to set about either; and a dark young man, like a tutor, a recalcitrant house-painter, who sang and acted not amiss.  The mother was the genius of the party, so far as genius can be spoken of with regard to such a pack of incompetent humbugs; and her husband could not find words to express his admiration for her comic countryman.  ‘You should see my old woman,’ said he, and nodded his beery countenance.  One night they performed in the stable-yard, with flaring lamps—­a wretched exhibition, coldly looked upon by a village audience.  Next night, as soon as the lamps were lighted, there came a plump of rain, and they had to sweep away their baggage as fast as possible, and make off to the barn where they harboured, cold, wet, and supperless.  In the morning, a dear friend of mine, who has as warm a heart for strollers as I have myself, made a little collection, and sent it by my hands to comfort them for their disappointment.  I gave it to the father; he thanked me cordially, and we drank a cup together in the kitchen, talking of roads, and audiences, and hard times.

When I was going, up got my old stroller, and off with his hat.  ’I am afraid,’ said he, ’that Monsieur will think me altogether a beggar; but I have another demand to make upon him.’  I began to hate him on the spot.  ‘We play again to-night,’ he went on.  ’Of course, I shall refuse to accept any more money from Monsieur and his friends, who have been already so liberal.  But our programme of to-night is something truly creditable; and I cling to the idea that Monsieur will honour us with his presence.’  And then, with a shrug and a smile:  ’Monsieur understands—­the vanity of an artist!’ Save the mark!  The vanity of an artist!  That is the kind of thing that reconciles me to life:  a ragged, tippling, incompetent old rogue, with the manners of a gentleman, and the vanity of an artist, to keep up his self-respect!

But the man after my own heart is M. de Vauversin.  It is nearly two years since I saw him first, and indeed I hope I may see him often again.  Here is his first programme, as I found it on the breakfast-table, and have kept it ever since as a relic of bright days: