ook, and a
defiant smile lurking behind his beard. He rested his elbow on the table
and began to drum with his fingers.

"What I have had the honor to inform you is the simple truth, Monsieur. I
am Monsieur Charnot of the Institute."

Lampron gave a glance in my direction, and his frown melted away.

"Excuse me, Monsieur; I only know you by your back. Had you shown me that
side of you I might perhaps have recognized--"

"I have not come here to listen to jokes, Monsieur; and I should have
come sooner to demand an explanation, but that it was only this morning I
heard of what I consider a deplorable abuse of your talents. But
picture-shows are not in my line. I did not see myself there. My friend
Flamaran had to tell me that I was to be seen at the last Salon, together
with my daughter, sitting on a tree-trunk in the forest of Saint-Germain.
Is it true, Monsieur, that you drew me sitting on a trunk?"

"Quite true."

"That's a trifle too rustic for a man who does not go outside of Paris
three times a year. And my daughter you drew in profile--a good likeness,
I believe."

"It was as like as I could make it."

"Then you confess that you drew both my daughter and myself?"

"Yes, I do, Monsieur."

"It may not be so easy for you to explain by what right you did so; I
await your explanation, Monsieur."

"I might very well give you no explanation whatever," replied Lampron,
who was beginning to lose patience. "I might also reply that I no more
needed to ask your permission to sketch you than to ask that of the
beeches, oaks, elms, and willows. I might tell you that you formed part
of the landscape, that every artist who sketches a bit of underwood has
the right to stick a figure in--"

"A figure, Monsieur! do you call me a figure?"

"A gentleman, I mean. Artists call it figure. Well, I might give you this
reason, which is quite good enough for you, but it is not the real one. I
prefer to tell you frankly what passed. You have a very beautiful
daughter, Monsieur."

M. Charnot made his customary bow.

"One of my friends is in love with her. He is shy, and dares not tell his
love. We met you by chance in the wood, and I was seized with the idea of
making a sketch of Mademoiselle Jeanne, so like that she could not
mistake it, and then exhibiting it with the certainty of her seeing it
and guessing its meaning. I trusted she would recall to her mind, not
myself, for my youth is past, but a young friend of mine who