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He waved his hand in the air, despatched me with a glance to my place, and let himself loose on the canvas; there are no other words for his tremulous eagerness. A quarter of an hour passed in silence. As I watched his motions grow every moment broader and more sweeping, I could fancy myself listening to some ardent pianist, plunging deeper into a passionate symphony and devouring the key-board with outstretched arms. Flushed and dishevelled, consuming me almost with his ardent stare, daubing, murmuring, panting, he seemed indeed to be painting for life.

At last I heard a tread in the vestibule. I knew it was Harold’s, and I hurried to look at the picture. How would he take it? I confess I was prepared for the worst. The picture spoke for itself. Harold’s work had disappeared with magical rapidity, and even my unskilled eye perceived that a graceful and expressive figure had been powerfully sketched in. As Harold appeared, I turned to meet him. He seemed surprised at not finding me alone, and I laid my finger gravely on my lips and led him to the front of the canvas. The position of things was so singular that for some moments it baffled his comprehension. My companion finished what he was immediately concerned with; then with an obsequious bow laid down his brushes. “It was a loan, monsieur,” he said. “I return it with interest. ”

Harold flushed to his eyes, and sat down in silence. I had expected him to be irritated; but this was more than irritation. At last: “Explain this extraordinary performance,” he said in a low voice.

I felt pain, and yet somehow I felt no regret. The situation was tense, as the phrase is, and yet I almost relished it. “This gentleman is a great artist,” I said boldly. “Look for yourself. Your picture was lost; he has redeemed it. ”

Harold looked at the intruder slowly from head to foot. “Who is this person?” he demanded, as if he had not heard me.

The young man understood no English, but he apparently guessed at the question. “My name is Pierre Briseux; let that (pointing to his work) denote my profession. If you’re affronted, monsieur, don’t visit your displeasure on mademoiselle; I alone am responsible. You had got into a tight place; I wished to help you out of it;sympathie de confrère! I’ve done you no injury. I’ve made you a present of half a masterpiece. If I could only trust you not to spoil it!”

Harold’s face betrayed his invincible disgust, and I saw that my offence was mortal. Hie had been wounded in his tenderest part, and his self-control was rapidly ebbing. His lips trembled, but he was too angry even to speak. Suddenly he seized a heavy brush which stood in a pot of dusky varnish, and I thought for a moment he was going to fling it at Briseux. He balanced it an instant, and then tossed it full in the face of the picture. I raised my hands to my face as if I felt the blow. Briseux, at least, felt it sorely.

“Malheureux!” he cried. “Are you blind as well? Don’t you know a good thing when you see it? That’s what I call a waste of material. Allons, you re very angry; let me explain. In meddling with your picture I certainly took a great liberty. My misery is my excuse. You have money, materials, models——everything but talent. No, no, you’re no painter; it’s impossible! There isn’t an intelligent line on your canvas. I, on the other hand, am a born painter. I’ve talent and nothing more. I came here to see M. Martinet; learning he was absent, I staid for very envy! I looked at your work, and found it a botch; at your empty stool and idle palette, and found them an immense temptation; at mademoiselle, and found her a perfect model. I persuaded, frightened, convinced her, and out of charity she gave me a five minutes sitting. Once the brush in my hand, I felt the divine afflatus; I hoped for a miracle——that you’d never come back, that you’d be run over in the street, or have an attack of apoplexy. If you had only let me go
on, I should have served you up a great work, monsieur——a work to which, in spite of your natural irritation, you wouldn’t have dared to do a violence. You’d have been afraid of it. That’s the sort of thing I meant to paint. If you could only believe me, you’d not regret it. Give me a start, and ten years hence I shall see you buying my pictures, and not thinking them dear. Oh, I thought I had my foot in the stirrup; I dreamed I was in the saddle and riding hard. But I’ve turned a somersault!”