ttle anywhere, and carry it off
to where some group is gathered before a great name, a costly frame, an
enormous canvas, or an outrage on taste; twenty men on a gallows
against a yellow sky, with twenty crows hovering over them, or an aged
antediluvian, some mighty hunter, completely nude and with no property
beyond a loaded club. One turns away, and the struggle begins again
between the eye, attracted by a hundred subjects, and the brain, which
would prefer to study one.

With Lampron this danger has no existence; he takes in a room at a
glance. He has the sportsman's eye which, in a covey of partridges,
marks its bird at a glance. He never hesitates. "That is the thing to
make for," he says, "come along"--and we make for it. He plants himself
right in front of the picture, with both hands in his overcoat pockets,
and his chin sunk in his collar; says nothing, but is quite happy
developing an idea which has occurred to him on his way to it; comparing
the picture before him with some former work by the same artist which
he remembers. His whole soul is concentrated on the picture. And when he
considers that I have understood and penetrated the meaning of the work,
he gives his opinion in few words, but always the right ones, summing up
a long sequence of ideas which I must have shared with him, since I see
exactly as he does.

In this way we halted before the "Martyrdom of Saint Denis," by Bonnat,
the two "Adorations," by Bouguereau, a landscape of Bernier's, some
other landscapes, sea pieces, and portraits.

At last we left the oil paintings.

In the open gallery, which runs around the inside of the huge oblong and
looks on the court, the watercolors, engravings, and drawings slumbered,
neglected. Lampron went straight to his works. I should have awarded
them the medaille d'honneur; an etching of a man's head, a large
engraving of the Virgin and Infant Jesus from the Salon Carre at the
Louvre, and the drawing which represents--

"Great Heavens! Sylvestre, she's perfectly lovely; she will make a great
mistake if she does not come and see herself!"

"She will come, my dear sir; but I shall not be there to see her."

"Are you going?"

"I leave you to stalk your game; be patient, and do not forget to come
and tell me the news this evening."

"I promise."

And Lampron vanished.

The drawing was hung about midway between two doorways draped with
curtains, that opened into the big galleries. I leaned against the