VI
On the tenth week after his arrival in Paris, Wynne’s money gave out. He had not bothered to consider what he should do when this happened, and as a result poverty seized him unprepared.
To do him justice he did not bother in the least as to the future of his bodily welfare, but was distressed beyond expression at the thought of abandoning his studies.
A wild idea possessed him to sell some of his future years for a few more terms at the studio. He even went to the length of discussing the project with the Massier. This gentleman, however, shook his head dubiously.
“Impossible,” he said.
“Why?” said Wynne. “I’ll give two-thirds of all I earn for the next three years to any one who’ll finance me now.”
“No doubt; but, monsieur, philanthropists are few in the Quartier—and your painting!” He made an expressive gesture. “Your paintings will never be sold. He who gave the money would see it again—never! I am sorry—it is sad—but what would you?”
Wynne turned away heavy at heart and angry, and next morning his place before the throne was vacant.