by which politics are dishonoured.

'I'm going to take you with me,' continued Fagerolles; you must come
and see how I'm settled in my little house, in which you haven't yet set
foot, in spite of all your promises. It's there, hard by, at the corner
of the Avenue de Villiers.'

Claude, whose arm he had gaily taken, was obliged to follow him. He was
seized with a fit of cowardice; the idea that his old chum might get
his picture 'hung' for him filled him with mingled shame and desire.
On reaching the avenue, he stopped in front of the house to look at its
frontage, a bit of coquettish, _precioso_ architectural tracery--the
exact copy of a Renaissance house at Bourges, with lattice windows, a
staircase tower, and a roof decked with leaden ornaments. It looked
like the abode of a harlot; and Claude was struck with surprise when,
on turning round, he recognised Irma Becot's regal mansion just over
the way. Huge, substantial, almost severe of aspect, it had all the
importance of a palace compared to its neighbour, the dwelling of the
artist, who was obliged to limit himself to a fanciful nick-nack.

'Ah! that Irma, eh?' said Fagerolles with just a shade of respect in his
tone. 'She has got a cathedral and no mistake! But come in.'

The interior of Fagerolles' house was strangely and magnificently
luxurious. Old tapestry, old weapons, a heap of old furniture, Chinese
and Japanese curios were displayed even in the very hall. On the left
there was a dining-room, panelled with lacquer work and having its
ceiling draped with a design of a red dragon. Then there was a staircase
of carved wood above which banners drooped, whilst tropical plants rose
up like plumes. Overhead, the studio was a marvel, though rather small
and without a picture visible. The walls, indeed, were entirely covered
with Oriental hangings, while at one end rose up a huge chimney-piece
with chimerical monsters supporting the tablet, and at the other
extremity appeared a vast couch under a tent--the latter quite
a monument, with lances upholding the sumptuous drapery, above a
collection of carpets, furs and cushions heaped together almost on a
level with the flooring.

Claude looked at it all, and there came to his lips a question which
he held back--Was all this paid for? Fagerolles, who had been decorated
with the Legion of Honour the previous year, now asked, it was said,
ten thousand francs for painting a mere portrait. Naudet, who, after
launching h