Cropoli, in his character of a compatriot, was indulgent towards
Pittrino, which was the name of the artist. Perhaps he had seen the
famous pictures of the bath-room. Be this as it may, he held in such
esteem, we may say in such friendship, the famous Pittrino, that he took
him in his own house.

Pittrino, grateful, and fed with macaroni, set about propagating the
reputation of this national dish, and from the time of its founder, he
had rendered, with his indefatigable tongue, signal services to the house
of Cropoli.

As he grew old he attached himself to the son as he had done to the
father, and by degrees became a kind of over-looker of a house in which
his remarkable integrity, his acknowledged sobriety, and a thousand other
virtues useless to enumerate, gave him an eternal place by the fireside,
with a right of inspection over the domestics. Besides this, it was he
who tasted the macaroni, to maintain the pure flavor of the ancient
tradition; and it must be allowed that he never permitted a grain of
pepper too much, or an atom of parmesan too little. His joy was at its
height on that day when called upon to share the secret of Cropoli the
younger, and to paint the famous sign.

He was seen at once rummaging with ardor in an old box, in which he found
some brushes, a little gnawed by the rats, but still passable; some
linseed-oil in a bottle, and a palette which had formerly belonged to
Bronzino, that _dieu de la pittoure_, as the ultramontane artist, in his
ever young enthusiasm, always called him.

Pittrino was puffed up with all the joy of a rehabilitation.