fted up an old carpet hanging over a hole in the
wall, which had once been a door, and led Freydet into the huge ruined
hall which served him for a studio, roofed with planks and decorated
with mats and hangings.

It looked with all its litter like a barn, or rather a yard under
cover, for in a sun-lit corner climbed a fine fig-tree with its twining
branches and elegant leaves, while close by was the bulk of a broken
stove, garlanded with ivy and honeysuckle, so as to resemble an old
well. Here he had been working for two years, summer and winter, in
spite, of the fogs of the neighbouring river and the bitter cold winds,
without a single sneeze (his own expression), having the healthful
strength of the great artists of the Renaissance, as well as their large
mould of countenance and fertile imagination. Now he was as weary of
sculpture and architecture as if he had been writing a tragedy. The
moment his statue was delivered and paid for, wouldn't he be off,
nursery and all, for a journey up the Nile in a dahabeeah, and paint and
paint from morning to night! While he spoke he moved away a stool and a
bench, and led his friend up to a huge block in the rough. 'There's my
warrior. Frankly now, what do you think of him?'

[Illustration: There's my warrior 092]

Freydet was somewhat startled and amazed at the colossal dimensions of
the sleeping hero. The scale was magnified in proportion to the
height of the canopy, and the roughness of the plaster exaggerated the
anatomical emphasis characteristic of Vedrine. Rather than smooth
away the force, he gives his work an unfinished earthy surface, as of
something still in the rock. But as the spectator gazed and began to
grasp, the huge form became distinct with that impressive and attractive
power which is the essence of fine art.

'Splendid!' he exclaimed, with the tone of sincerity. The other winked
his merry little eyes, and said:

'Not at first sight, eh? My style does not take till you are accustomed
to it; and I do not feel sure of the Princess, when she comes to look at
this ugly fellow.'

Paul Astier was to bring her in a few days, as soon as it had been
rubbed down and smoothed and was ready to go to the foundry; and the
sculptor looked forward to the visit with some uncertainty, knowing the
taste of great ladies, as it is displayed in the stereotyped chatter,
which at the Salon on five-shilling days runs up and down the
picture-rooms, and breaks out round the scu