serving people, interpreting words,
analyzing gestures, uncovering the heart. This strong, round head was
appropriate to his name, quick and short, with the bounding resonance of
the two vowels.

When the journalist had fully explained his proposition, the writer
answered him that he did not wish to make any definite arrangement, that
he would, however, think the matter over, that his plans were not yet
sufficiently defined. Then he stopped. It was a dismissal, and the two
men, a little confused, arose. A desire seized Patissot; he wished this
well-known person to say something to him, anything, some word which he
could repeat to his colleagues; and, growing bold, he stammered: "Oh,
monsieur! If you knew how I appreciate your works!" The other bowed,
but answered nothing. Patissot became very bold and continued: "It is a
great honor for me to speak to you to-day." The writer once more
bowed, but with a stiff and impatient look. Patissot noticed it, and,
completely losing his head, he added as he retreated: "What a su--su
--superb property!"

Then, in the heart of the man of letters, the landowner awoke, and,
smiling, he opened the window to show them the immense stretch of view.
An endless horizon broadened out on all sides, giving a view of Triel,
Pisse-Fontaine, Chanteloup, all the heights of Hautrie, and the Seine
as far as the eye could see. The two visitors, delighted, congratulated
him, and the house was opened to them. They saw everything, down to
the dainty kitchen, whose walls and even ceilings were covered with
porcelain tiles ornamented with blue designs, which excited the wonder
of the farmers.

"How did you happen to buy this place?" asked the journalist.

The novelist explained that, while looking for a cottage to hire for the
summer, he had found the little house, which was for sale for several
thousand francs, a song, almost nothing. He immediately bought it.

"But everything that you have added must have cost you a good deal!"

The writer smiled, and answered: "Yes, quite a little."

The two men left. The journalist, taking Patissot by the arm, was
philosophizing in a low voice:

"Every general has his Waterloo," he said; "every Balzac has his
Jardies, and every artist living in the country feels like a landed
proprietor."

They took the train at the station of Villaines, and, on the way home,
Patissot loudly mentioned the names of the famous painter and of the
great novelist as though they w