“Very comfortably out of the world, Amedee,” I said.  “It seems to me I have it all to myself.”

“Unhappily, yes!” he exclaimed; then excused himself, chuckling.  “I should have said that we should be happier if we had many like monsieur.  But it is early in the season to despair.  Then, too, our best suite is already engaged.”

“By whom?”

“Two men of science who arrive next week.  One is a great man.  Madame Brossard is pleased that he is coming to Les Trois Pigeons, but I tell her it is only natural.  He comes now for the first time because he likes the quiet, but he will come again, like monsieur, because he has been here before.  That is what I always say:  ’Any one who has been here must come again.’  The problem is only to get them to come the first time.  Truly!”

“Who is the great man, Amedee?”

“Ah!  A distinguished professor of science.  Truly.”

“What science?”

“I do not know.  But he is a member of the Institute.  Monsieur must have heard of that great Professor Keredec?”

“The name is known.  Who is the other?”

“A friend of his.  I do not know.  All the upper floor of the east wing they have taken—­the Grande Suite—­those two and their valet-de-chambre.  That is truly the way in modern times—­the philosophers are rich men.”

“Yes,” I sighed.  “Only the painters are poor nowadays.”

“Ha, ha, monsieur!” Amedee laughed cunningly.

“It was always easy to see that monsieur only amuses himself with his painting.”

“Thank you, Amedee,” I responded.  “I have amused other people with it too, I fear.”

“Oh, without doubt!” he agreed graciously, as he folded the cloth.  I have always tried to believe that it was not so much my pictures as the fact that I paid my bills the day they were presented which convinced everybody about Les Trois Pigeons that I was an amateur.  But I never became happily enough settled in this opinion to risk pressing an investigation; and it was a relief that Amedee changed the subject.

“Monsieur remembers the Chateau de Quesnay—­at the crest of the hill on the road north of Dives?”

“I remember.”

“It is occupied this season by some rich Americans.”

“How do you know they are rich?”

“Dieu de Dieu!” The old fellow appealed to heaven.  “But they are Americans!”

“And therefore millionaires.  Perfectly, Amedee.”

“Perfectly, monsieur.  Perhaps monsieur knows them.”

“Yes, I know them.”

“Truly!” He affected dejection.  “And poor Madame Brossard thought monsieur had returned to our old hotel because he liked it, and remembered our wine of Beaune and the good beds and old Gaston’s cooking!”

“Do not weep, Amedee,” I said.  “I have come to paint; not because I know the people who have taken Quesnay.”  And I added:  “I may not see them at all.”