“I’m surprised at that.”
“Why so? I have never seen you.”
“You have taken my portrait!”
“Really!”
I was watching Lampron, who was plainly angered at this brusque introduction. He left the chair which he had begun to push forward, let it stand in the middle of the studio, and went and sat down on his engraving-stool in the corner, with a somewhat haughty look, and a defiant smile lurking behind his beard. He rested his elbow on the table and began to drum with his fingers.
“What I have had the honor to inform you is the simple truth, Monsieur. I am Monsieur Charnot of the Institute.”
Lampron gave a glance in my direction, and his frown melted away.
“Excuse me, Monsieur; I only know you by your back. Had you shown me that side of you I might perhaps have recognized—”
“I have not come here to listen to jokes, Monsieur; and I should have come sooner to demand an explanation, but that it was only this morning I heard of what I consider a deplorable abuse of your talents. But picture-shows are not in my line. I did not see myself there. My friend Flamaran had to tell me that I was to be seen at the last Salon, together with my daughter, sitting on a tree-trunk in the forest of Saint-Germain. Is it true, Monsieur, that you drew me sitting on a trunk?”
“Quite true.”