"The baby would have had on plenty of clothes: one of his dresses was sent from the Tuileries for Monsieur C---- to paint, and I sewed a rosette on it myself." This from the painter's wife. "A countryman of yours sat for the head of a young priest at the ceremony. He had a fine countenance: he was studying art with me at the time, and has since been professor of drawing at your Naval Academy. Teaching is a sad trade--Pegasus dragging the plough." "At least, your other great picture brought you nothing but praise." "The public have since repented of being so good to me. Then, they could not say enough in my favor: now, if a person asks what I am doing, every one repeats like a parrot, 'C---- doesn't paint, C---- doesn't paint.' I have heard it so often that I begin to believe it myself, and when I am asked join the general cry, 'C---- doesn't paint.'" I laughed, thinking this a joke, but I soon found that though C---- might be cynical, sarcastic or bitter, though he might excite unintentional laughter by his remarks, he was too sensitive a man to take any but a serious view of life. The imperfections of the world excited his disgust, his anger, never his mirth. "Ah but, monsieur," said Afra, "you should be satisfied, and leave some little honor for the rest of us to gather. The stories one hears of your youth are like fairy-tales." "And they are true," replied the artist with evident enjoyment. "In those days I was pointed out to people when I walked the street; which, by the way, gave rise to an odd incident. A gentleman thought he had seen me in a crowd, but he had taken an older and taller man for the great painter. He believed big pictures were painted by big men, and I had not then my present circumference. This gentleman sent me an invitation to dine with him. On the day appointed I arrived at the house, and was met at the door by my host, a look of surprise and annoyance on his face which he tried to conceal by a low bow, at the same time asking politely, 'How is your father?'--'Very well, thank you,' I returned, although I could not understand why my father's health should be a matter of interest to him.--'You have come to tell me of some catastrophe which prevents his attendance here to-day?'--'Not at all: I have come to dine with you, according to this invitation.' Here I pulled out the card, which I happened to have in my pocket.--'Are you the person here addressed?' he said, staring at me.--'I am'.--'I beg your pardon, there is a mistake: I meant it for your father, the painter of the "Décadence des Romains."'--'I am the painter of the "Décadence," but I am not my father.'--'You ought to be an older man.'--'I should have been, monsieur, had I been born sooner.'--At that moment a friend, overhearing the conversation and divining the cause, came and explained to my wonder-struck host that I was really the artist in question. With many apologies I was led into a hall adorned with floral arches in my honor, next to a beautiful