refers the annual _Salon_ where he
regales on the latest conceptions of the various modern schools. To
him, the Louvre belongs to the past, in common with the Sorbonne, the
Pantheon, Notre Dame, and other public monuments which constitute the
city's pride.

To-day the Louvre recruits its visitors chiefly from provincial folk and
foreigners. Cook's tourists, open-mouthed, heavy-booted, and breathless,
rush headlong through the rooms, their feet resounding noisily on the
highly polished parquet floors, slippery as ice and shining like
mirrors, rudely disturbing the almost religious silence of the deserted
galleries. Like a flock of stupid sheep driven by a hoarse-voiced
shepherd who acts as official guide, they stumble from room to room,
following the long, puzzling labyrinth of corridors, understanding
nothing of the stereotyped explanations shouted at them, merely glancing
at and quite indifferent to, the art wealth of the centuries which looks
disdainfully down upon them from every side. Attendants in uniform, a
cocked hat worn jauntily over their left ear, an expression of utter
weariness on their stolid, soldier-like faces, walk listlessly up and
down with measured tread, secretly despising these foreign barbarians
who display so little interest in the great masters, watching with
eagle eye that one of the vandals does not stick his umbrella through a
priceless Rembrandt or Correggio.

Here and there, secluded in distant corners, sitting or standing near
favorite pictures, which they have come to love as though they were
their own, are the true art lovers, the copyists, who spend weeks,
months, sometimes years in futile attempts to transfer to modern canvas
the wonderful transparent coloring of a Tintoretto, a da Vinci or a
Raphael. They are of both sexes. Some are old and others are young. One
is a venerable old man, with long, snow-white hair and patriarchal
beard, who for half a century has earned a scant living copying the
masters. Others are neatly dressed, slim-looking girls--art students of
all nations--timidly trying to reproduce works whose fame has rung
around the world. Monday is the copyists' favorite day, for then the
great Museum is closed to the general public, and by special permission
the artists have the huge palace and its precious contents all to
themselves. They are not annoyed by the crowding and rude staring of
thoughtless strangers. Bent over their easels, they are alone in the
great palace,