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
salon, likewise decorated, and finally we reached the dining-room,
which was arranged to represent my picture. Columns wreathed with
flowers supported the roof; flowers festooned the white table-linen
and adorned the antique vessels that covered it; couches of different
colored silk were laid after the Roman fashion for the guests to
recline upon; and lovely women dressed in costly Roman costumes, their
heads crowned with flowers, were placed in the attitudes that you
will see on my celebrated canvas. Was it not a graceful tribute to my
genius?"

"If a Frenchman wants to pay a compliment, he never uses one that has
done duty before, but invents something new," said Afra emphatically.

"What are you painting now, monsieur?" I asked.

"A series of pictures called 'Pierrot the Clown.' He succeeds in
tricking the world in every station of life. I am just finishing his
deathbed. All his friends are weeping about him: the doctor feels
his pulse and gives some learned name to the disease--doctors know so
much--while hidden everywhere around the room are empty bottles. The
drunken clown plays with even death for a mask."

"I thought he painted such romantic pictures," said I to Afra as we