has been in prison, too, and he bellows insults at his
elders and betters when they pass him on the stairs. He is a man of
no soul!"

"Yes," said Rufin. "But did you say he had been in prison?"

"I did," affirmed Musard. "Ask anyone. It is not that I abuse him; he
is, in fact, a criminal. Once he threw an egg at a gendarme. And yet
you come to me--a dying man--and declare that such a creature can
paint! Bah!"

"Yes," said Rufin, "it is strange."

It was clearly hopeless to try to extract any real information from
Papa Musard; that veteran was fortified with prejudices. Rufin
resigned himself to the inevitable; and, although he was burning with
eagerness to find the painter of the picture he had recently seen, to
welcome him into the sunlight of fame and success, he bent his mind
to the interview with Papa Musard.

"I have had my part in the development of Art," the invalid was
saying at the end of three-quarters of an hour. "Perhaps I have not
had my full share of recognition. Since Corot, no artist has been
magnanimous; they have become tradesmen, shopkeepers."

"You are hard on us, Musard," said Rufin. "We're a bad lot, but we do
our best. Here is a small matter of money that may help to make you
comfortable. I'm sorry you have such an unpleasant neighbor."

"You are going?" demanded Musard.

"I must," said Rufin. "To-morrow I go into the country for some
weeks, and nothing is packed yet."

"Corot would not have left an old man to die in solitude," remarked
Musard thoughtfully.

Rufin smiled regretfully and got away while he could. Papa Musard in
an hour could wear down even his patience.

The painter's room was still unlocked and unoccupied as he descended
the stairs; he entered it for another look at the picture. He needed
to confirm his memory, to be assured that he had not endowed the work
with virtue not its own. The trivial, cheaply pretty face fronted him
again, with its little artificial graces only half-masking the sore,
tormented femininity behind it. Yes, it was the true art, the
poignant vision, a thing belonging to all time.

In the courtyard the fat concierge was awake, in a torpid fashion,
and knitting. She lifted her greedy and tyrannical eyes at the tall
figure of Rufin, with its suggestion of splendors and dignities. But
she was not much more informative than Papa Musard had been.

"Oh, the painter!" she exclaimed, when she understood who was in
question. "Ah, M'sieur, it is two day