He stepped back from the easel. He was equal to a great gesture, as to a great thought. As though he had greeted a living princess, he swept his hat off in a bow to the work of this unknown fellow.
Papa Musard in his bed, with his comforts—mostly in bottles— arranged within his reach, found it rather shocking that a distinguished artist should enter the presence of a dying man like— as he remarked during his convalescence—a dog going into a pond. He sat up in astonishment.
"Musard," demanded Rufin abruptly, "who is the artist who lives in the room below this?"
"Oh, him!" replied Papa Musard, sinking back on his pillow. "M'sieur Rufin, this is the last time I shall appeal to you. Before long I shall again be in the presence of the great master, of Corot, of him who——"
Rufin, it seemed, had lost all respect both for Corot and death. He waved an imperious arm, over which his cloak flapped like a black wing.
"Who is the artist in the room below?" repeated Rufin urgently. "Do you know him?"
"No," replied Papa Musard, with emphasis. "Know him—an Italian, a ruffian, an apache, a man with hair on his arms like a baboon! I do not know him. There!"
He was offended; a dying man has his privileges, at least. The face, gnarled and tempestuously bearded, which had been perpetuated by a hundred laborious painters, glared from the pillow at Rufin with indignation and protest.
Rufin suppressed an impulse to speak forcibly, for one has no more right to strip a man of his pose than of his shirt. He smiled at the angry invalid conciliatingly.
"See how I forget myself!" he said apologetically. "We artists are all alike. Show us a picture and our manners go by the board. With you, Musard, need I say more?"