rugs of many colors
lying here and there about the floor; and down in one corner I observed
a heap of little models, useful, no doubt, as accessories in
pictures--gondolas, frigates, foreign-looking carts, a tiny sedan chair,
and the like.

But the main interest of the scene concentrated itself in the unfinished
picture, the hired model (a brawny fellow in a close-fitting suit of
black, leaning on a huge two-handed sword), and the artist in his
holland blouse, with the palette and brushes in his hand.

It was a very large picture, and stood on a monster easel, somewhat
towards the end of the studio. The light from above poured full upon the
canvas, while beyond lay a background of shadow. Much of the subject was
as yet only indicated, but enough was already there to tell the tragic
story and display the power of the painter. There, high above the heads
of the mounted guards and the assembled spectators, rose the scaffold,
hung with black. Egmont, wearing a crimson tabard, a short black cloak
embroidered with gold, and a hat ornamented with black and white plumes,
stood in a haughty attitude, as if facing the square and the people. Two
other figures, apparently of an ecclesiastic and a Spanish general,
partly in outline, partly laid in with flat color, were placed to the
right of the principal character. The headsman stood behind, leaning
upon his sword. The slender spire of the Hotel de Ville, surmounted by
its gilded archangel glittering in the morning sun, rose high against a
sky of cloudless blue; while all around was seen the well-known square
with its sculptured gables and decorated facades--every roof, window,
and balcony crowded with spectators.

Unfinished though it was, I saw at once that I was brought face to face
with what would some day be a famous work of art. The figures were
grandly grouped; the heads were noble; the sky was full of air; the
action of the whole scene informed with life and motion.

I stood admiring and silent, while Mueller told his tale, and Flandrin
paused in his work to listen.

"It is horribly unlucky," said he. "I had not been able to find a
portrait of Romero and, _faute de mieux_, have been trying for days
past to invent the right sort of head for him--of course, without
success. You never saw such a heap of failures! But as for that man at
the cafe, if Providence had especially created him for my purpose, he
could not have answered it better."

"I believe I am as sorry as y