He started, and turned his devil upon me. The face was made Mephistophelian, and the front half of him wore scarlet.
"Thanks," he said, laughing roguishly, when he recognised me. "It's darned queer that Paris should be the place where they refuse to take the devil's money."
I suggested smilingly that it was the corpse they fought shy of.
"I guess not," he retorted. "It's dead men's money that keeps this place lively. I wish I'd had the chance of some anyhow; but a rolling stone gathers no moss, they say—not even from graveyards, I suppose."
He spoke disconsolately, in a tone more befitting the back than the front of him, and quite out of accord with the reckless revelry around him.
"Oh! you'll make lots of money with your pictures," I said heartily.
He shook his head. "That's the chap who's going to scoop in the dollars," he said, indicating a brawny Frenchman attired in a blanket that girdled his loins, and black feathers that decorated his hair. "That fellow's got the touch of Velasquez. You should see the portrait he's doing for the Salon."
"Well, I don't see much art in his costume, anyhow," I retorted. "Yours is an inspiration of genius."
"Yes; so prophetic, don't you know," he replied modestly. "But you are not the only one who has complimented me. To it I owe the proudest moment of my life—when I shook hands with a European prince." And he laughed with returning merriment.
"Indeed!" I exclaimed. "With which?"