impolite to have replied neither, so I said that I should be delighted to
see them in my room.

At breakfast I asked the pilgrim what he did, and he replied that he was
an artist.

He could not design a picture, but he could copy it, and he assured me
that he could copy an engraving so exactly that none could tell the copy
from the original.

"I congratulate you. If you are not a rich man, you are, at least,
certain of earning a living with this talent."

"Everybody says the same, but it is a mistake. I have pursued this craft
at Rome and at Naples, and found I had to work all day to make half a
tester, and that's not enough to live on."

He then shewed me some fans he had done, and I thought them most
beautiful. They were done in pen and ink, and the finest copper-plate
could not have surpassed them.

Next he showed me a copy from a Rembrandt, which if anything, was finer
than the original. In spite of all he swore that the work he got barely
supported him, but I did not believe what he said. He was a weak genius
who preferred a vagabond life to methodical labour.

I offered a Louis for one of his fans, but he refused to take it, begging
me to accept the fan as a gift, and to make a collection for him at the
table d'hote, as he wanted to start the day after next.