He it was, indeed, who had the heaviest task on his hands; it will be recollected that he was burdened with an immense panel and with the painting of all the top parts above the doors. Alas! it is sad to think that of those ten artists who put their talent at my disposition, four to-day lie in the tomb! Of those ten hearts which beat so happily in unison with my own, four are stilled! Who would have told you then, in that merry workroom which you covered with your paintings, and filled with your laughter, in those three days of talking, during which scintillated incessantly that fascinating wit the secret of which artists alone have the key; who would have said to you, beloved dead friends! that, while still young, I should survive you, and that I should pause when mentioning your names to say to myself, 'It is not enough for you, their brother, simply to mention their names; you ought to relate what they were like as men and artists, their characters and their talents!' A task both sweet and melancholy it is to speak of the dead that one loves! Moreover, it is midnight; the hour for invocation. I am alone, no profane gaze appears through the darkness to scare your sepulchral modesty. Come, brothers! Come! Tell me, in the language of the dead, that gentle whisper which is like the stream caressing its banks, the soft sound of leaves rustling in the forest, the gentle murmur of the breeze sobbing in the reeds, tell me of your life, your sorrows, your hopes and your triumphs, so that the world, nearly always indifferent when it is not ungrateful, may know what you were and, above all, your worth! CHAPTER II Alfred Johannot The first who appears to me, because he was the first who left us, is pale and sad as he was when living. His hair is cut short, his forehead is prominent, his glance is both gloomy and gentle beneath his thick eyebrows, the moustache and beard are russet-brown, the face long and melancholy. His name is Alfred Johannot, and he has been dead now for sixteen years. Come, brother! come nearer to me; it is I, a friend who calls thee. Speak, tell, in the tongue of the dead, of thy youth and glorious life, and I will repeat it in the language of the living. Spirits of the night, silence even the shaking of your moth-like wings, that all may be still; even thou, too, O Night--silence, dumb son of darkness! The dead speak low, but I will speak aloud. We have all seen him, young men of twenty-five, men of forty, old men of seventy. Was he not indeed such as I have described him to be? Now, here is his biography. * * * * *