“This one,” he said, “I should like to buy it.”
It was the worst pot-boiler of the lot. Before the portraits, it was hopeless.
Cartaret half understood.
“No,” he said; “you don’t really want it.”
Seraphin had been right: the young man was proud. “How then?” demanded Fourget. “This also did you paint not-to-sell?”
“I painted it to sell,” said Cartaret miserably, “but it doesn’t deserve selling—perhaps just because I did paint it to sell.”
To his surprise, Fourget came to him and put an arm on his shoulder, a withered hand patting the American’s back.
“Ah, if but some more-famous artists felt as you do! Come; let me have it. That is very well. I shall sell it to a fool. Many fools are my patrons. How else could I live? There is not enough good art to meet all demands, or there are not enough demands to meet all good art. Who shall say? Suffice it there are demands of sorts. Daily I thank the good God for His fools....”
Cartaret went to Les Halles and bought a large box of strawberries.
He had put them carefully on his window-shelf and covered them with a copy of a last week’s Matin—being an American, he of course read the Matin—for he was resolved that, now he again had a little money, these strawberries should be his final extravagance and should be treasured accordingly—he had just anchored the paper against the gentle Spring breeze when he became aware that he had another visitor.