Bishop had condescendingly decided to become _un élève de Gérôme_--with some misgivings, for Bishop had developed ideas of a large and free American art, while Gérôme was hard and academic. One day he gathered up some of his best drawings and studies (which he regarded as masterpieces) and, climbing to the impériale of a Clichy 'bus, rode over to Montmartre, where Gérôme had his private studio. He was politely ushered in by a manservant, and conducted to the door of the master's studio through a hall and gallery filled with wonderful marble groups. Gérôme himself opened the door, and Bishop found himself in the great man's workshop. For a moment Bishop stood dazed in the middle of the splendid room, with its great sculptures and paintings, some still unfinished, and a famous collection of barbaric arms and costumes. A beautiful model was posing upon a rug. But most impressive of all was the white-haired master, regarding him with a thoughtful and searching, but kindly, glance. Bishop presently found a tongue with which to stammer out his mission,--he would be a pupil of the great Gérôme. The old man smiled, and, bidding his model retire, inspected carefully the array of drawings that Bishop spread at his feet,--Gérôme must have evidence of some ability for the magic of his brain and touch to develop. "_Sont pas mal, mon ami_," he said, after he had studied all the drawings; "_non, pas mal_." Bishop's heart bounded,--his work was not bad! "_Vous êtes Américain?_" continued the master. "_C'est un pays que j'aimerais bien visiter si le temps ne me manquait pas_." Thus he chatted on, putting Bishop more and more at his ease. He talked of America and the promising future that she has for art; then he went into his little office, and, asking Bishop's name, filled out the blank that made him a happy pupil of Gérôme. He handed it to Bishop with this parting-advice, spoken with great earnestness: "_Il faut travailler, mon ami--travailler! Pour arriver, travailler toujours, sérieusement, bien entendu!_" Bishop was so proud and happy that he ran all the way up the six flights of stairs to our floor, burst into the studio, and executed a war-dance that would have shamed an Apache, stepping into his paint-box and nearly destroying his sacred Unknown. That night we had a glorious supper, with des escargots to start with. Early on the fifteenth of October, with his head erect and hope filling his soul, Bishop started for the Beaux-Arts, which was in the Rue Bonaparte, quite near. That night he returned wise and saddened.