was, there could be no doubt about it, Baron Stilkin, whom he thought had long since reached Amsterdam, or had returned to his family mansion. Yes, it was the Baron, not decreased in rotund proportions since they parted. “Grand, very grand!” he exclaimed in sonorous tones, approaching the picture. “It reminds me forcibly of the best of Claude’s productions; exquisite colouring!”
“And what is your opinion, Count Funnibos?” asked the President.
“He has grown wonderfully fat,” answered the Count, who was thinking of the Baron. “I fear that no carriage can be found strong enough to take him home.”
“I beg your pardon, Count, I was speaking of the picture,” remarked the President. The Baron, however, had heard the Count’s voice; turning round, he opened his arms to give him a friendly embrace.
“What, my dear Count! Is it you, yourself?”
“I think you ran away and left me to my mysterious fate,” said the Count, with a slight degree of stiffness. “I conclude that you did not receive my letter requesting you to meet me at Amsterdam, and stating the reasons for my not rejoining you sooner; however, I am very glad to see you again.”
“No, indeed, I received no letter,” answered the Baron. “Had I done so, it would have saved me a world of anxiety.”
“We must remember that we are in the presence of strangers,” said the Count. “Our friend here desired to know my opinion of that magnificent picture. I may add that it surpasses my utmost expectations.”
His opinion highly pleased the artist as well as the spectators, who were delighted to find their countryman’s production so highly praised by two distinguished foreigners.