"Well— I must be off. It's late, and I've a lot to attend to. I have to go to the Palais-Royal first. Are you going my way?"
A moment later they were on the avenue hailing a cab. The cocher, aroused by the promise of an extra pourboire, drove off briskly in the direction of the Rue de Rivoli, and soon they were rolling smoothly along that street of wonderful arcades. Passing the gilded gates of the Tuileries gardens they soon came abreast of the Louvre. Tod glanced up at the gloomy, time-discolored walls.
"That's one place I must take in before I leave Paris. Not that I know one picture from another. Ever been there?"
Mr. Cooley gave a snort of disapproval.
"Naw," he grunted. "I've no time to spend in sepulchres. I prefer the Bal Tabarin myself."
CHAPTER III.
Among the extraordinary attractions which makes Paris the show place of Europe, the historic Palace of the Louvre possesses, curiously enough, the least drawing power of any. Its popularity, from the tourist viewpoint, at least, certainly falls far short of that enjoyed by the Moulin Rouge. In other words, the Louvre, vast repository as it is of the art wealth of the world, would seem to contain little attraction for the multitude. The annual picture expositions in the Champs Elysées are always crowded to suffocation, especially on free days, showing that the common people are not wholly indifferent to art, but for some reason which has never been satisfactorily explained, the celebrated museum, the one-time residence of the Kings of France, with all its historic memories, its priceless pictures and endless rooms filled with sculptures and antiquities is treated with indifference and neglect. The blasé Parisian takes no interest in it, because it is at his very door. If he loves pictures, he prefers the annual Salon where he regales on the latest conceptions of the various modern schools. To him, the Louvre belongs to the past, in common with the Sorbonne, the Pantheon, Notre Dame, and other public monuments which constitute the city's pride.
To-day the Louvre recruits its visitors chiefly from provincial folk and foreigners. Cook's tourists, open-mouthed, heavy-booted, and breathless, rush headlong through the rooms, their feet resounding noisily on the highly polished parquet floors, slippery as ice and shining like mirrors, rudely disturbing the almost religious silence of the deserted galleries. Like a flock of stupid sheep driven by a hoarse-voiced shepherd who acts as official guide, they stumble from room to room, following the long, puzzling labyrinth of corridors, understanding nothing of the stereotyped explanations shouted at them, merely glancing at and quite indifferent to, the art wealth of the centuries which looks disdainfully down upon them from every side. Attendants in uniform, a cocked hat worn jauntily over their left ear, an expression of utter weariness on their stolid, soldier-like faces, walk listlessly up and down with measured tread, secretly despising these foreign barbarians who display so little interest in the great masters, watching with eagle eye that one of the vandals does not stick his umbrella through a priceless Rembrandt or Correggio.
Here and there, secluded in distant corners, sitting or standing near favorite pictures, which they have come to love as though they were their own, are the true art lovers, the copyists, who spend weeks, months, sometimes years in futile attempts to transfer to modern canvas the wonderful transparent coloring of a Tintoretto, a da Vinci or a Raphael. They are of both sexes. Some are old and others are young. One is a venerable old man, with long, snow-white hair and patriarchal beard, who for half a century has earned a scant living copying the masters. Others are neatly dressed, slim-looking girls—art students of all nations—timidly trying to reproduce works whose fame has rung around the world. Monday is the copyists' favorite day, for then the great Museum is closed to the general public, and by special permission the artists have the huge palace and its precious contents all to themselves. They are not annoyed by the crowding and rude staring of thoughtless strangers. Bent over their easels, they are alone in the great palace, amid silence as heavy and impressive as that in a church.