e inn where I was staying, in the
Department of Seine et Marne. There was a father and mother; two
daughters, brazen, blowsy hussies, who sang and acted, without an idea
of how to set about either; and a dark young man, like a tutor, a
recalcitrant house-painter, who sang and acted not amiss. The mother was
the genius of the party, so far as genius can be spoken of with regard
to such a pack of incompetent humbugs; and her husband could not find
words to express his admiration for her comic countryman. "You should
see my old woman," said he, and nodded his beery countenance. One night
they performed in the stable-yard, with flaring lamps--a wretched
exhibition, coldly looked upon by a village audience. Next night, as
soon as the lamps were lighted, there came a plump of rain, and they had
to sweep away their baggage as fast as possible, and make off to the
barn where they harboured, cold, wet, and supperless. In the morning, a
dear friend of mine, who has as warm a heart for strollers as I have
myself, made a little collection, and sent it by my hands to comfort
them for their disappointment. I gave it to the father; he thanked me
cordially, and we drank a cup together in the kitchen, talking of roads,
and audiences, and hard times.

When I was going, up got my old stroller, and off with his hat. "I am
afraid," said he, "that Monsieur will think me altogether a beggar; but
I have another demand to make upon him." I began to hate him on the
spot. "We play again to-night," he went on. "Of course, I shall refuse
to accept any more money from Monsieur and his friends, who have been
already so liberal. But our programme of to-night is something truly
creditable; and I cling to the idea that Monsieur will honour us with
his presence." And then, with a shrug and a smile: "Monsieur
understands--the vanity of an artist!" Save the mark! The vanity of an
artist! That is the kind of thing that reconciles me to life: a ragged,
tippling, incompetent old rogue, with the manners of a gentleman, and
the vanity of an artist, to keep up his self-respect!

But the man after my own heart is M. de Vauversin. It is nearly two
years since I saw him first, and indeed I hope I may see him often
again. Here is his first programme, as I found it on the
breakfast-table, and have kept it ever since as a relic of bright
days:--

_"Mesdames et Messieurs,_

_"Mademoiselle Ferrario et M. de Vauversin auront l'honneur de
chanter ce so