CHAPTER 2

      He wandered back to the divan and seated himself on the other side, in view of the great canvas on which Paul Veronese had depicted the marriage-feast of Cana. Wearied as he was he found the picture entertaining; it had an illusion for him; it satisfied his conception, which was ambitious, of what a splendid banquet should be. In the left-hand corner of the picture is a young woman with yellow tresses confined in a golden head-dress; she is bending forward and listening, with the smile of a charming woman at a dinner-party, to her neighbor. Newman detected her in the crowd, admired her, and perceived that she too had her votive copyist—a young man with his hair standing on end. Suddenly he became conscious of the germ of the mania of the “collector;” he had taken the first step; why should he not go on? It was only twenty minutes before that he had bought the first picture of his life, and now he was already thinking of art-patronage as a fascinating pursuit. His reflections quickened his good-humor, and he was on the point of approaching the young man with another “Combien?” Two or three facts in this relation are noticeable, although the logical chain which connects them may seem imperfect. He knew Mademoiselle Nioche had asked too much; he bore her no grudge for doing so, and he was determined to pay the young man exactly the proper sum. At this moment, however, his attention was attracted by a gentleman who had come from another part of the room and whose manner was that of a stranger to the gallery, although he was equipped with neither guide-book nor opera-glass. He carried a white sun-umbrella, lined with blue silk, and he strolled in front of the Paul Veronese, vaguely looking at it, but much too near to see anything but the grain of the canvas. Opposite to Christopher Newman he paused and turned, and then our friend, who had been observing him, had a chance to verify a suspicion aroused by an imperfect view of his face. The result of this larger scrutiny was that he presently sprang to his feet, strode across the room, and, with an outstretched hand, arrested the gentleman with the blue-lined umbrella. The latter stared, but put out his hand at a venture. He was corpulent and rosy, and though his countenance, which was ornamented with a beautiful flaxen beard, carefully divided in the middle and brushed outward at the sides, was not remarkable for intensity of expression, he looked like a person who would willingly shake hands with anyone. I know not what Newman thought of his face, but he found a want of response in his grasp.

      “Oh, come, come,” he said, laughing; “don’t say, now, you don’t know me—if I have NOT got a white parasol!”

      The sound of his voice quickened the other’s memory, his face expanded to its fullest capacity, and he also broke into a laugh. “Why, Newman—I’ll be blowed! Where in the world—I declare—who would have thought? You know you have changed.”

      “You haven’t!” said Newman.

      “Not for the better, no doubt. When did you get here?”

      “Three days ago.”

      “Why didn’t you let me know?”

      “I had no idea YOU were here.”

      “I have been here these six years.”

      “It must be eight or nine since we met.”

      “Something of that sort. We were very young.”

      “It was in St. Louis, during the war. You were in the army.”

      “Oh no, not I! But you were.”

      “I believe I was.”

      “You came out all right?”

      “I came out with my legs and arms—and with satisfaction. All that seems very far away.”

      “And how long have you been in Europe?”

      “Seventeen days.”

      “First time?”

      “Yes, very much so.”

      “Made your everlasting fortune?”

      Christopher Newman was silent a moment, and then with a tranquil smile he answered, “Yes.”

      “And come to Paris to spend it, eh?”

      “Well, we shall see. So they carry those parasols here—the menfolk?”

      “Of course they do. They’re great things. They understand comfort out here.”

      “Where do you buy them?”

      “Anywhere, everywhere.”

      “Well, Tristram, I’m glad to get hold of you. You can show me the ropes. I suppose you know Paris inside out.”

      Mr. Tristram gave a mellow smile of self-gratulation. “Well, I guess there are not many men that can show me much. I’ll take care of you.”

      “It’s a pity you were not here a few minutes ago. I have just bought a picture. You might have put the thing through for me.”

      “Bought a picture?” said Mr. Tristram, looking vaguely round at the walls. “Why, do they sell them?”

      “I mean a copy.”

      “Oh, I see. These,” said Mr. Tristram, nodding at the Titians and Vandykes, “these, I suppose, are originals.”

      “I hope so,” cried Newman. “I don’t want a copy of a copy.”

      “Ah,” said Mr. Tristram, mysteriously, “you can never tell. They imitate, you know, so deucedly well. It’s like the jewelers, with their false stones. Go into the Palais Royal, there; you see ‘Imitation’ on half the windows. The law obliges them to stick it on, you know; but you can’t tell the things apart. To tell the truth,” Mr. Tristram continued, with a wry face, “I don’t do much in pictures. I leave that to my wife.”

      “Ah, you have got a wife?”

      “Didn’t I mention it? She’s a very nice woman; you must know her. She’s up there in the Avenue d’Iena.”

      “So you are regularly