“What horrors!” Will said one day, as they were passing in front of a hall full of plaster statues and unframed paintings. “It must be from the studio of some poor devil whom they are selling out at auction.”
There were casts from nature—arms and legs and feet; there were formless sketches, canvases hung on the wall; for some, it was impossible to see what they represented, as they had been hung head downward. There was a tub, some bottles, a few chairs, a mattress, and a rickety table, all heaped up in a corner. Two monstrous statues seemed to keep watch over the confusion. On the pedestal of one was inscribed “Liberty,” and she raised arms and head furiously; the second, “Fraternity,” lay on the ground in fragments, turning enormous haunches to the public.
“What are those mastodons there?” Will asked.
“That,” said Phil, with surprise, “that must be from a sculptor whose name is Poufaille; yes, look at the sign over the door—Vente Poufaille.”
“Poor Poufaille!” said Phil to himself; “he must have been unable to pay his rent—the landlord has come down on him. If I had known, I might have helped; but it is so long since I have seen him.”
What he saw recalled the day when he entered the sculptor’s place on his arrival in Paris. He remembered the gay laughter of Suzanne from the top of her ladder, and the pork fried with garlic. Those statues, those pictures worthy to figure in a collection of horrors,—how much more ugly and more lamentable still it all seemed to him in the presence of the crowd of indifferent passers-by!
“Poufaille?” Ethel asked with interest. “Is it the Poufaille of whom you used to tell me? Why, he has no talent; he’d do better as a farmer.”
The sale began and they heard the auctioneer above the confusion of the throng: “Magnificent statues—‘Liberty’—‘Fraternity’—give me a bid!”
“Forty sous!”
“Forty sous? There’s half a ton of plaster there! Come, now, a higher bid!”