“What picture?”
“Your picture in the Luxembourg. Haven’t you read the papers?”
You could have “knocked Phil over with a feather.” They were telling him he had a picture in the Luxembourg, and he was the only one not to know it! Surely they must be amusing themselves with him—they must have got up a practical joke. So he went away, ill disposed for a rigolade after the events of the day.
He had not gone ten steps when he stumbled on Poufaille; but it was Poufaille cold and sinister, a Northern Poufaille as it were, closer buttoned up than Vieillecloche in his rôle as statesman.
“How goes it?” Phil said cordially, holding out his hand.
Poufaille did not budge.
“What’s the matter?” said Phil. “You’re giving me the cold shoulder! Is everybody losing his head? You won’t take my hand, good old Poufaille!”
“I am no longer your good old Poufaille!”
“But what have I done?” Phil asked.
“What have you done?” Poufaille burst out, unable to restrain himself longer. “I’ll tell you what you’ve done. You’ve stolen my share of glory—you sign pictures which were painted by me! I’ve seen my cows in the Luxembourg, signed by your name—the picture into which I put my whole soul!”