ars, and a pair of thick felt slippers made up his
usual garb. For he was nearly always shivering with cold, and had an
affection of the throat, besides, which compelled him to be careful.
"But for my wrapping up, I should have been dead at thirty," he said.

Nevertheless, at the stroke of eight, winter and summer, he was in his
studio, which he did not leave until dark, during six months of the
year, and a little before, during the other six. Contrary to the French
habit, he never took luncheon, and generally dined at home a little
after six--the fatigue of dining out being too much for him.

I may safely say that I was one of Delacroix' friends, with whom he
talked without restraint. I often went to him of an evening when the
weather prevented his going abroad, which, in his state of health, was
very often. He always chafed at such confinement; for though not fond of
society in a general way, he liked coming to the Boulevards, after his
work was over, and mixing with his familiars. Delacroix smoked, but,
unlike many addicted to tobacco, could not sit idle. His hands, as well
as his brain, wanted to be busy; consequently, when imprisoned by rain
or snow, he sat sketching figures or groups, talking all the while. By
then his name had become familiar to every art student throughout the
world, and he often received flattering letters from distant parts. One
evening, shortly after the death of David d'Angers, to an episode in
whose life I have devoted a considerable space in these notes, Delacroix
received an American newspaper, the title of which I have forgotten, but
which contained an exceedingly able article on the great sculptor, as an
artist, and as a man. It wound up with the question, "And what kind of
monument will be raised to him by the man who virtually shortened his
life by sending him into exile, because David remained true to the
republican principles which Napoleon only shammed--or, if not shammed,
deliberately trod underfoot to ascend a tyrant's throne?"

I translated the whole of the article, and, when I came to the last
lines, Delacroix shook his head sadly. "You remember," he said, "the
answer of our friend Dumas, when they asked him for a subscription
towards a monument to a man whom every one had reviled in the beginning
of his career. 'They had better be content with the stones they threw at
him during his existence. No monument they can raise will be so eloquent
of their imbecility and his genius.'