"It's of no use, Monsieur," he exclaimed, getting more red and excited. "You are taking my portrait, and I object to it. I know you are taking my portrait." Müller looked up dreamily. "I beg your pardon, Monsieur," said he. "Did you speak?' "Yes, Monsieur. I did speak. I repeat that you shall not take my portrait." "Your portrait, Monsieur?" "Yes, my portrait!" "But, Monsieur," remonstrated the artist, with an air of mingled candor and surprise, "I never dreamed of taking your portrait!" "_Sacre non_!" shouted the old gentleman, with another rap of the umbrella. "I saw you do it! Everybody saw you do It!" "Nay, if Monsieur will but do me the honor to believe that I was simply sketching from nature, as the train...." "An impudent subterfuge, sir!" interrupted the old gentleman. "An impudent subterfuge, and nothing less!" Müller drew himself up with immense dignity. "Monsieur," he said, haughtily, "that is an expression which I must request you to retract. I have already assured you, on the word of a gentleman...." "A gentleman, indeed! A pretty gentleman! He takes my portrait, and...." "I have not taken your portrait, Monsieur." "Good heavens!" cried the old gentleman, looking round, "was ever such assurance! Did not every one present see him in the act? I appeal to every one--to you, Monsieur--to you, Mesdames,--to you, reverend father,--did you not all see this person taking my portrait?" "Nay, then, if it must come to this," said Müller, "let the sketch be evidence, and let these ladies and gentlemen decide whether it is really the portrait of Monsieur--and if they think it like?" Saying which, he held up the book, and displayed a head, sketched, it is true, with admirable spirit and cleverness, but--the head of an ass, with a thistle in its mouth! A simultaneous explosion of mirth followed. Even the priest laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks, and Dalrymple, heavy-hearted as he was, could not help joining in the general shout. As for the old gentleman, the victim of this elaborate practical joke, he glared at us all round, swore that it was a premeditated insult from beginning to end, and, swelling with suppressed rage, flung himself back into his corner, and looked resolutely in the opposite direction. By this time we were half-way to Paris, and the student, satisfied with his success, packed up his folio, brought out a great meerschaum with a snaky tube, and smoked like a factory-chimney. When we alighted, it was nearly five o'clock. "What shall we do next?" said Dalrymple, pulling drearily at his moustache. "I am so deuced dull to-day that I am ashamed to ask anybody to do me the charity to dine with me--especially a _bon garçon_ like Herr Müller." "Don't be ashamed," said the student, laughingly, "I would dine with Pluto himself, if the dishes were good and my appetite as sharp as to-day." "_Allons_, then! Where shall we go; to the _Trois Frères_, or the _Moulin Rouge_, or the _Maison Dorée_?"