sooner. Come, get up, comrade!" He shook his comrade, who had not
taken off his clothes. I observed that he was too weak to walk, but the
bookbinder would not listen: he made him get up, and half dragged,
half supported him to the lodge of the porter, who ran for a hackney
carriage. I saw the sick man get into it, almost fainting, with the
impatient waterman; and they both set off, one perhaps to die, the other
to dine at Courtville Gardens!

Six o'clock.--I have been to knock at my neighbor's door, who opened it
himself; and I have given him his letter, finished at last, and directed
to his son's widow. M. Antoine thanked me gratefully, and made me sit
down.

It was the first time I had been into the attic of the old amateur.
Curtains stained with damp and hanging down in rags, a cold stove, a bed
of straw, two broken chairs, composed all the furniture. At the end of
the room were a great number of prints in a heap, and paintings without
frames turned against the wall.

At the moment I came in, the old man was making his dinner on some hard
crusts of bread, which he was soaking in a glass of 'eau sucree'. He
perceived that my eyes fell upon his hermit fare, and he looked a little
ashamed.

"There is nothing to tempt you in my supper, neighbor," said he, with a
smile.

I replied that at least I thought it a very philosophical one for the
Carnival.

M. Antoine shook his head, and went on again with his supper.

"Every one keeps his holidays in his own way," resumed he, beginning
again to dip a crust into his glass. "There are several sorts of
epicures, and not all feasts are meant to regale the palate; there are
some also for the ears and the eyes."

I looked involuntarily round me, as if to seek for the invisible banquet
which could make up to him for such a supper.

Without doubt he understood me; for he got up slowly, and, with the
magisterial air of a man confident in what he is about to do, he
rummaged behind several picture frames, drew forth a painting, over
which he passed his hand, and silently placed it under the light of the
lamp.

It represented a fine-looking old man, seated at table with his wife,
his daughter, and his children, and singing to the accompaniment of
musicians who appeared in the background. At first sight I recognized
the subject, which I had often admired at the Louvre, and I declared it
to be a splendid copy of Jordaens.

"A copy!" cried M. Antoine; "say an original, neighbor