ht a cigar, or do you prefer a chibouque?
By the way, a little refreshment wouldn't be out of place, considering
this tropical temperature."

Without waiting for an answer, he rang a beautifully chased silver
bell.

A young servant-girl, of pretty figure and graceful manner, entered;
the painter whispered a word in her ear, whereupon the girl disappeared
and returned, five minutes after, with a silver waiter, on which stood
a wicker-work bottle and some glasses.

"I brought this wine myself from Samos," said Rossel; "You must at
least taste it and drink to our good friendship!"

"Then let me immediately sin against that friendship and ask a somewhat
indiscreet question: how is it possible for you to bury, like a dead
treasure, a talent which you yourself admit you have?"

"My dear fellow," replied the artist, coolly, "the matter is much
simpler than you suppose. My object is, like that of all men--let them
prate as much as they like about duty, virtue, or self-sacrifice--to be
as happy as possible. But happiness consists, as I believe, in nothing
else than in creating for one's self a certain state, a manner of life
or pursuit, in which one finds himself at the height of his
individuality, in the full enjoyment of his peculiar powers and gifts.
Therefore, every man has a happiness of his own; and nothing can be
more foolish than for one person to object to another's way of enjoying
himself, or to persuade or advise others to exchange their way for his.
The more any one makes himself feel, by his manner of life, that he is
a particular individual, the more Nature has attained her end in making
him, and the more contented he can be with himself and his situation.
All unhappiness arises from the fact that men try to do things for
which they are not fitted. If you give a million to a man born with a
genius for begging, you will make him an unhappy millionaire. He can no
longer exercise his talent. A virtuoso in suffering, a Stylites, or a
sister of charity, for whom you should suddenly provide a healthy and
comfortable life, would at once lose all individuality and so all
happiness. For it is undeniable that there are men who are only
conscious of their individuality when they are torturing themselves, in
the coarser or finer sense of the expression. To such, a state of
repose is an abasement, and to this class belong all truly productive
artists. To work, to produce something which shall afterward stand as a
monument