Carolus Duran, gave to one of my fair compatriots. He knew that
the lady was leaving Paris on the morrow, and that in an hour, her
husband and his friends were coming to see and criticise the
portrait - always a terrible ordeal for an artist.

To any one familiar with this painter's moods, it was evident that
the result of the sitting was not entirely satisfactory. The quick
breathing, the impatient tapping movement of the foot, the swift
backward springs to obtain a better view, so characteristic of him
in moments of doubt, and which had twenty years before earned him
the name of LE DANSEUR from his fellow-copyists at the Louvre,
betrayed to even a casual observer that his discouragement and
discontent were at boiling point.

The sound of a bell and a murmur of voices announced the entrance
of the visitors into the vast studio. After the formalities of
introduction had been accomplished the new-comers glanced at the
portrait, but uttered never a word. From it they passed in a
perfectly casual manner to an inspection of the beautiful contents
of the room, investigating the tapestries, admiring the armor, and
finally, after another glance at the portrait, the husband
remarked: "You have given my wife a jolly long neck, haven't you?"
and, turning to his friends, began laughing and chatting in
English.

If vitriol had been thrown on my poor master's quivering frame, the
effect could not have been more instantaneous, his ignorance of the
language spoken doubtless exaggerating his impression of being
ridiculed. Suddenly he turned very white, and before any of us had
divined his intention he had seized a Japanese sword lying by and