ich was arranged to represent my picture. Columns wreathed with
flowers supported the roof; flowers festooned the white table-linen
and adorned the antique vessels that covered it; couches of different
colored silk were laid after the Roman fashion for the guests to
recline upon; and lovely women dressed in costly Roman costumes, their
heads crowned with flowers, were placed in the attitudes that you
will see on my celebrated canvas. Was it not a graceful tribute to my
genius?"

"If a Frenchman wants to pay a compliment, he never uses one that has
done duty before, but invents something new," said Afra emphatically.

"What are you painting now, monsieur?" I asked.

"A series of pictures called 'Pierrot the Clown.' He succeeds in
tricking the world in every station of life. I am just finishing his
deathbed. All his friends are weeping about him: the doctor feels
his pulse and gives some learned name to the disease--doctors know so
much--while hidden everywhere around the room are empty bottles. The
drunken clown plays with even death for a mask."

"I thought he painted such romantic pictures," said I to Afra as we
turned from the master.

"So he does: there is one in his studio now. A girl clad in gray and
shadow--open-air shade which in his hands is so clear and luminous.
She walks along a garden-path, her head bent down, dreaming as she
goes, and unconsciously nearing a half-open gateway, through which the
sunshine is streaming. Above the rustic gate two doves are billing and
cooing. You feel sure the girl is about to pass through this typical,
sunshiny, invitingly half-open door; and--what is beyond?"

Just then we were called to lunch, a plentiful but not luxurious
repast. There was no lack of lively repartees and anecdotes, and
we had speeches and songs afterward. I wonder if I ever heard "'Tis
better to laugh than be sighing" given with more zest than on that
day? One could easily imagine that it was such an occasion as this
that had inspired it.

Lunch being over, Monsieur C---- was asked to relate one of his own
stories. I cannot give it entire, but the plot was this: A pilgrim,
whom he called poor Jacques, hearing much of heaven, set out to find
his way to the blessed abode, with only a little dog to accompany him
on the journey. As he went he met many of his contemporaries, who
had made what a walker would style but poor time. The allusions to
well-known peculiarities in the various people and their occ