ves him for
a while, and he actually goes beyond the master; as himself protests to
me, yet modestly. And still, it is precisely at those moments that he
feels most the difference between himself and Antony Watteau. "In that
country, all the pebbles are golden nuggets," he says; with perfect
good-humour.

[30]

June 1716.

'Tis truly in a delightful abode that Antony Watteau is just now
lodged--the hotel, or town-house of M. de Crozat, which is not only a
comfortable dwelling-place, but also a precious museum lucky people go
far to see. Jean-Baptiste, too, has seen the place, and describes it.
The antiquities, beautiful curiosities of all sorts--above all, the
original drawings of those old masters Antony so greatly admires--are
arranged all around one there, that the influence, the genius, of those
things may imperceptibly play upon and enter into one, and form what
one does. The house is situated near the Rue Richelieu, but has a
large garden about it. M. de Crozat gives his musical parties there,
and Antony Watteau has painted the walls of one of the apartments with
the Four Seasons, after the manner of ours, but doubtless improved by
second thoughts. This beautiful place is now Antony's home for a
while. The house has but one story, with attics in the mansard roofs,
like those of a farmhouse in the country. I fancy Antony fled thither
for a few moments, from the visitors who weary him; breathing the
freshness of that dewy garden in the very midst of Paris. As for me, I
suffocate this summer afternoon in this pretty Watteau chamber of ours,
where Jean-Baptiste is at work so contentedly.

[31]

May 1717.

In spite of all that happened, Jean-Baptiste has been looking forward
to a visit to Valenciennes which Antony Watteau had proposed to make.
He hopes always--has a patient hope--that Anthony's former patronage of
him may be revived. And now he is among us, actually at his
work--restless and disquieting, meagre, like a woman with some nervous
malady. Is it pity, then, pity only, one must feel for the brilliant
one? He has been criticising the work of Jean-Baptiste, who takes his
judgments generously, gratefully. Can it be that, after all, he
despises and is no true lover of his own art, and is but chilled by an
enthusiasm for it in another, such as that of Jean-Baptiste? as if
Jean-Baptiste over-valued it, or as if some ignobleness or blunder,
some sign that he has really missed his aim, started i