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