an to inquire about the price of
portraits. Madame X. and the Countess M. had been captivated, he said,
by "A Memory," and wanted sittings. If the commissions were sufficient
the dealer could arrange for very many orders, not only for many women
of fashion, but of members of the Government.

The following year his portrait of Baron Chevrail received the Gold
Medal and he himself a red ribbon, and a few months later his picture
of "Columbus before the Council" took the highest honors at Genoa, and
was bought by the Government.

During almost all the years of his triumphal progress he lived alone.
So seldom was he seen outside of his studio that many of his brother
painters were convinced that he never spent more than a few days at a
time in Paris. They would knock, and knock again, only to be told by
the concierge that monsieur was out, or in London, or on the Riviera.
His studio in London and his occasional visits to Vienna, where he
shared Makart's atelier while painting a portrait of one of the
Austrian grand dukes, helped in this delusion. The truth was that he
had no thought for things outside of his art. The rewards of fame and
money never appealed to him. What enthralled him was his love of
color, of harmony, of the mastering of subtleties in composition and
mass. That the public approved of his efforts, and that juries awarded
him honors, caused him no thrill of exultation. He knew how far short
his brush had come. He was glad they liked the picture. Next time he
would do better. These triumphs ruffled his surface--as a passing wind
ruffles a deep pool.

As he grew in years there came a certain dignity of carriage, a
certain poise of bearing. The old-time courtliness of manner was
strengthened; but the sweetness of nature was still the same--a nature
that won for him friends among the best about him. Not many--only
three or four who had the privilege of knocking with three light taps
and one loud one at his door, a signal to which he always
responded--but friends whose proudest boast was their intimacy with
Adam Gregg.

The women smiled at him behind their lorgnons as they passed him
riding in the Bois, for he had never given up this form of out-door
exercise, his erect military figure, fine head and upturned mustache
lending him a distinction which attracted attention at once; but he
seldom did more than return their salutations. Sometimes he would
accept an invitation to dinner, but only on rare occasions.