hed, allowing it to hold
its own against Florence and the Renaissance--Stidmann was in Chanor's
private room when the army lace manufacturer called to make inquiries as
to "One Steinbock, a Polish refugee."

"Whom do you call 'One Steinbock'? Do you mean a young Livonian who was
a pupil of mine?" cried Stidmann ironically. "I may tell you, monsieur,
that he is a very great artist. It is said of me that I believe myself
to be the Devil. Well, that poor fellow does not know that he is capable
of becoming a god."

"Indeed," said Rivet, well pleased. And then he added, "Though you take
a rather cavalier tone with a man who has the honor to be an Assessor on
the Tribunal of Commerce of the Department of the Seine."

"Your pardon, Consul!" said Stidmann, with a military salute.

"I am delighted," the Assessor went on, "to hear what you say. The man
may make money then?"

"Certainly," said Chanor; "but he must work. He would have a tidy sum by
now if he had stayed with us. What is to be done? Artists have a horror
of not being free."

"They have a proper sense of their value and dignity," replied Stidmann.
"I do not blame Wenceslas for walking alone, trying to make a name, and
to become a great man; he had a right to do so! But he was a great loss
to me when he left."

"That, you see," exclaimed Rivet, "is what all young students aim at as
soon as they are hatched out of the school-egg. Begin by saving money, I
say, and seek glory afterwards."

"It spoils your touch to be picking up coin," said Stidmann. "It is
Glory's business to bring us wealth."

"And, after all," said Chanor to Rivet, "you cannot tether them."

"They would eat the halter," replied Stidmann.

"All these gentlemen have as much caprice as talent," said Chanor,
looking at Stidmann. "They spend no end of money; they keep their girls,
they throw coin out of window, and then they have no time to work. They
neglect their orders; we have to employ workmen who are very inferior,
but who grow rich; and then they complain of the hard times, while, if
they were but steady, they might have piles of gold."

"You old Lumignon," said Stidmann, "you remind me of the publisher
before the Revolution who said--'If only I could keep Montesquieu,
Voltaire, and Rousseau very poor in my backshed, and lock up their
breeches in a cupboard, what a lot of nice little books they would write
to make my fortune.'--If works of art could be hammered out like nails,
workmen w