On that day I made the acquaintance of two persons who were then prominent in the first rank of Parisian notabilities. One was a man of the world, refined, delicate, spiritual, gallant, and possessed of the rare and subtle talent of talking on any subject without in any way involving himself in difficulties. This was M. Cheramy. The other was an older person, with expressive features under thick grey hair. His manner was crabbed and gruff. He expressed himself in phrases that were jerky and brief, but full of natural wit. It was evident that he took a real pleasure in talking to us. We three, M. Cheramy, he and I, were discussing artistic questions when, in a pause of our conversation, we perceived that we were surrounded by a considerable audience. The effect was magical. Two of us became silent, but M. Cheramy was equal to the situation and, with perfect calmness, put everyone at ease. We were then in the salon. The grey-haired gentleman caught my attention as well as that of Rachel Boyer, who was talking in the midst of a group some distance away. He made us understand with signs that he wished to speak with us, apart from the others. We slipped away to find out what he wanted. I expected--it goes without saying, considering his mysterious manner--something extraordinary, and, from the point of view of our companion, I was not far wrong. “Perhaps!” he said abruptly, “you would like to look at my collection.” While he pronounced these two words, “my collection,” an air of self-respect shone on his face. Since then I have recalled this experience and have understood it. But I was not at all affected by it then, and I kept wondering what kind of queer character this was. He seemed to me a little out of his mind. I answered him, therefore, without disturbing myself: “Thank you, sir. I have just seen the Louvre; and I think that is a very pretty col--” Rachel Boyer broke into my sentence smiling, but with a look as if she were somewhat scandalised. Then she assured the old man that we both were appreciative in the highest degree of the marked favour that he had shown us. Thereupon we made an appointment, and the little old man left us. “Why does he want me to see his collection,” I asked Rachel Boyer. “Why?” she replied. “For no other reason undoubtedly than that he particularly admires you. For, you see, his collection is the most complete of its kind, and in his eyes sacred. I cannot tell you how surprised I was to hear him invite you. Only very rarely, as a matter of fact, does he permit anyone to look at his masterpieces.” “Really! But who is this gentleman? What does he do?” “What! You don’t know him! Yet I introduced him to you.” “You did. But I failed to catch his name.” Rachel Boyer’s voice bore a tone of deep respect as she said: “Why, that is M. Groult!”