y the worthy Madame
Tussaud, and you think you know what wax-works mean. But you are wrong.
The exhibition of Madame Tussaud--in these days, at any rate--is the
work of _bourgeois_ for a _bourgeois_ class. The Musee Grevin contains
the work of artists for a nation of artists. Wax, modelled and retouched
till it seems as near life as death is: this is what one sees at the
Musee Grevin.

"Let's look in at the Musee Grevin," said Vincent. He remembered the
pleasant thrill the Musee had given him, and wondered what sort of a
thrill it would give his friend.

"I hate museums," said Edward.

"This isn't a museum," Vincent said, and truly; "it's just wax-works."

"All right," said Edward indifferently. And they went. They reached the
doors of the Musee in the grey-brown dusk of a February evening.

One walks along a bare, narrow corridor, much like the entrance to the
stalls of the Standard Theatre, and such daylight as there may be fades
away behind one, and one finds oneself in a square hall, heavily
decorated, and displaying with its electric lights Loie Fuller in her
accordion-pleated skirts, and one or two other figures not designed to
quicken the pulse.

"It's very like Madame Tussaud's," said Edward.

"Yes," Vincent said; "isn't it?"

Then they passed through an arch, and behold, a long room with waxen
groups life-like behind glass--the _coulisses_ of the Opera, Kitchener
at Fashoda--this last with a desert background lit by something
convincingly like desert sunlight.

"By Jove!" said Edward, "that's jolly good."

"Yes," said Vincent again; "isn't it?"

Edward's interest grew. The things were so convincing, so very nearly
alive. Given the right angle, their glass eyes met one's own, and
seemed to exchange with one meaning glances.

Vincent led the way to an arched door labelled: "Gallerie de la
Revolution."

There one saw, almost in the living, suffering body, poor Marie
Antoinette in prison in the Temple, her little son on his couch of rags,
the rats eating from his platter, the brutal Simon calling to him from
the grated window; one almost heard the words, "Ho la, little Capet--are
you asleep?"

One saw Marat bleeding in his bath--the brave Charlotte eyeing him--the
very tiles of the bath-room, the glass of the windows with, outside, the
very sunlight, as it seemed, of 1793 on that "yellow July evening, the
thirteenth of the month."

The spectators did not move in a public place among wax-work fig