idea of perpetuating their forms and figures already too bulky in
themselves, Pierre Grassou, who had risen early, prepared his palette,
and lighted his stove, was eating a roll steeped in milk, and waiting
till the frost on his windows had melted sufficiently to let the full
light in. The weather was fine and dry. At this moment the artist, who
ate his bread with that patient, resigned air that tells so much,
heard and recognized the step of a man who had upon his life the
influence such men have on the lives of nearly all artists,--the step
of Elie Magus, a picture-dealer, a usurer in canvas. The next moment
Elie Magus entered and found the painter in the act of beginning his
work in the tidy studio.

"How are you, old rascal?" said the painter.

Fougeres had the cross of the Legion of honor, and Elie Magus bought
his pictures at two and three hundred francs apiece, so he gave
himself the airs of a fine artist.

"Business is very bad," replied Elie. "You artists have such
pretensions! You talk of two hundred francs when you haven't put six
sous' worth of color on a canvas. However, you are a good fellow, I'll
say that. You are steady; and I've come to put a good bit of business
in your way."

"Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes," said Fougeres. "Do you know Latin?"

"No."

"Well, it means that the Greeks never proposed a good bit of business
to the Trojans without getting their fair share of it. In the olden