THE EQUINOX
the adjective), “has painted many pictures of Paris. Indeed,
as I think of it, I seem to remember a large picture of St.
Sulpice at the Salon of eight years ago—no, seven years ago.”
Roderic stared in surprise. How should any one—such
a man, of all men—remember his daub, a thing himself
had long forgotten? The oldster read his thought. “There
was one corner of that picture which interested me deeply,
deeply,” he said. “TI called to see you; you had gone—none
knew where. I am indeed glad to have met you at last.
Perhaps you would be good enough to show me your pictures
—you have other pictures of Paris? I am interested in
Paris—in Paris itself—in the stones and bricks of it. Might
I—if you have nothing better to do—come to your studio
now, and see them ?”
“Tm afraid the light——” began Roderic. It was now ten
o'clock.
“That is nothing,” returned the other. “I have my own
criteria of excellence. A match-glimmer serves me.”
There was only one explanation of all this. The man must
be an architect, perhaps ruined in the mad speculations of the
Empire, so well described by Zola in “La Curée.”
“ At your service, sir,” he said, and rose. The old fellow
was surely eccentric; but equally he was not dangerous. He
was rich, or he would not be wearing a diamond worth every
penny of two thousand pounds, as Roderic, no bad judge,
made out. There might be profit, and there would assuredly
be pleasure.
They waved, the one an airy, the other a courteous, good-
night to grand old Frédéric, and went out.
The old man was nimble as a kitten; he had all the
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