hat is base, cowardly, and envious, to
well up from the depths of the human heart. He was no longer the Jew
Walter, head of a shady bank, manager of a fishy paper, deputy suspected
of illicit jobbery. He was Monsieur Walter, the wealthy Israelite.

He wished to show himself off. Aware of the monetary embarrassments of
the Prince de Carlsbourg, who owned one of the finest mansions in the
Rue de Faubourg, Saint Honore, with a garden giving onto the Champs
Elysees, he proposed to him to buy house and furniture, without shifting
a stick, within twenty-four hours. He offered three millions, and the
prince, tempted by the amount, accepted. The following day Walter
installed himself in his new domicile. Then he had another idea, the
idea of a conqueror who wishes to conquer Paris, the idea of a
Bonaparte. The whole city was flocking at that moment to see a great
painting by the Hungarian artist, Karl Marcowitch, exhibited at a
dealer's named Jacques Lenoble, and representing Christ walking on the
water. The art critics, filled with enthusiasm, declared the picture the
most superb masterpiece of the century. Walter bought it for four
hundred thousand francs, and took it away, thus cutting suddenly short a
flow of public curiosity, and forcing the whole of Paris to speak of him
in terms of envy, blame, or approbation. Then he had it announced in the
papers that he would invite everyone known in Parisian society to view
at his house some evening this triumph of the foreign master, in order
that it might not be said that he had hidden away a work of art. His
house would be open; let those who would, come. It would be enough to
show at the door the letter of invitation.

This ran as follows: "Monsieur and Madame Walter beg of you to honor
them with your company on December 30th, between 9 and 12 p. m., to view
the picture by Karl Marcowitch, 'Jesus Walking on the Waters,' lit up by
electric light." Then, as a postscript, in small letters: "Dancing after
midnight." So those who wished to stay could, and out of these the

Walters would recruit their future acquaintances. The others would view
the picture, the mansion, and their owners with worldly curiosity,
insolent and indifferent, and would then go away as they came. But Daddy
Walter knew very well that they would return later on, as they had come
to his Israelite brethren grown rich like himself. The first thing was
that they should enter his house, all these titled paupers who