"His father," so the old gentleman's story ran, "was a rich man, who left behind him a large property; he had a passion for our art of an intensity of which few men certainly are capable. He devoted to it a great part of his fortune, and his collection might justly be called incomparable. In his attention to it however he neglected rather too much, it must be owned, the education of this his only son; hence on the old man's death the youth thought of nothing but spending his money in the company of parasites and low people, and keeping women and equipages. When he came of age he had enormous debts to pay to usurers and on bills, but he set his pride in increasing his extravagance; the pictures were sold, for he had no taste for them; I took them at fair prices. He has now, I believe, pretty nearly run through every thing except the house, which is a handsome one, though that too may perhaps be encumbered with debts; knowledge he has scarcely acquired any; employment is insupportable to him; and so one cannot help seeing with concern how he is advancing towards his ruin."
"The every-day history of numbers," observed the stranger, "and the common course of a paltry vanity, that leads men gaily into the arms of dishonour."
"How have you been able to acquire so sure an eye?" inquired the counsellor. "I am astonished too at the style of your drawing after Julio Romano, since you say you are no artist."
"But I have long studied the art," answered the stranger; "I have viewed with some diligence, and not without profit, the most important galleries in Europe; my eye is naturally keen and accurate, and has been improved and rendered sure by practice; so that I may flatter myself that I cannot easily be deceived, at all events on the subject of my favourites."
The stranger now took his leave, after having been forced to promise the collector to dine with him the next day, for the old gentleman had conceived a great respect for the traveller's accomplishments.
In unspeakable anger Edward returned home. He went furiously in, banged all the doors violently after him, and hastened through the great rooms to a little back parlour, where, in the twilight, sat old Eulenböck, with a glass of generous wine by his side, waiting for his coming. "Here!" cried Edward, "thou old wry-nosed, wine-burnt scoundrel, is thy daub again; sell it to the soap-boiler up the street, and let him melt it down into his vat, if the painting does not suit him."
"A pity that for my good little picture," said the old painter, pouring himself out another glass with perfect coolness. "Thou art warm, darling; so the old man would have nothing to say to the bargain?"
"Rogue!" cried Edward, flinging the picture violently away; "and on thy account I am become a rogue myself! Affronted, insulted! Oh, and how ashamed of myself, my face and neck all of a glow from top to bottom, that for thy sake I should have permitted myself such a lie!"
"It's no lie at all, manikin," said the painter, as he unwrapped the picture; "it is as genuine a Salvator Rosa as I ever painted. Thou hast never seen me at work upon it, and therefore canst not know who the author is. Thou hast no dexterity, my little simpleton; I ought not to have trusted thee with the business."