My acquisition gave me much pleasure, but, unfortunately, it immediately became the subject of an altercation between my two selves. I must here say that my inner and outer self seldom agree, the latter being a practical man and a clerk in a retail lace business, while the former is an idealist who despises the other's employment and ridicules his opinions, frequently bewailing the lot that links him to a clod without aspirations.
It was to settle this dispute that I resolved, if possible, to discover some facts about the portrait's history, and for this purpose I stopped at the shop next morning, fortunately finding the shock-headed boy alone. Old Sticks would not have given even an answer, his business being buying and selling.
"Where did you get that picture I bought of you yesterday?" I began.
"Think it's an old master?" he asked with a wink.
"Will you answer my question, you blockhead?" I said, threatening him with my stick.
"I brought it from No. 42 Rue Notre Dame de Lorette," he whimpered, avoiding the cane as if it recalled disagreeable memories.
"To whom did it belong?"
"I don't know."
"Speak out, my man, and you shall have this for your reward." The proffered half-franc made him voluble.
"I was sent for it to No. 42. The concierge gave it to me. He had it carefully wrapped up: that made me laugh when I saw it opened."