“An artist?” returned the other, with a blank stare. “Not if I know it!”
“Pardon me,” said the actor. “What you said this moment about the orbs of heaven—“
“Oh, nonsense!” cried the Englishman. “A fellow may admire the stars and be anything he likes.”
“You have an artist’s nature, however, Mr. —— I beg your pardon; may I, without indiscretion, inquire your name?” asked Léon.
“My name is Stubbs,” replied the Englishman.
“I thank you,” returned Léon. “Mine is Berthelini—Léon Berthelini, ex-artist of the theatres of Montrouge, Belleville, and Montmartre. Humble as you see me, I have created with applause more than one important rôle. The Press were unanimous in praise of my Howling Devil of the Mountains, in the piece of the same name. Madame, whom I now present to you, is herself an artist, and I must not omit to state, a better artist than her husband. She also is a creator; she created nearly twenty successful songs at one of the principal Parisian music-halls. But to continue: I was saying you had an artist’s nature, Monsieur Stubbs, and you must permit me to be a judge in such a question. I trust you will not falsify your instincts; let me beseech you to follow the career of an artist.”
“Thank you,” returned Stubbs, with a chuckle. “I’m going to be a banker.”
“No,” said Leon, “do not say so. Not that. A man with such a nature as yours should not derogate so far. What are a few privations here and there, so long as you are working for a high and noble goal?”
“This fellow’s mad,” thought Stubbs: “but the woman’s rather pretty, and he’s not bad fun himself, if you come to that.” What he said was different: “I thought you said you were an actor?”