of the quarter carried up Pinkerton along with me. Some of my comrades

of this date were pretty obnoxious fellows. I could almost always admire

and respect the grown-up practitioners of art in Paris; but many of

those who were still in a state of pupilage were sorry specimens, so

much so that I used often to wonder where the painters came from, and

where the brutes of students went to. A similar mystery hangs over the

intermediate stages of the medical profession, and must have perplexed

the least observant. The ruffian, at least, whom I now carried Pinkerton

to visit, was one of the most crapulous in the quarter. He turned

out for our delectation a huge "crust" (as we used to call it) of St.

Stephen, wallowing in red upon his belly in an exhausted receiver, and

a crowd of Hebrews in blue, green, and yellow, pelting him--apparently

with buns; and while we gazed upon this contrivance, regaled us with

a piece of his own recent biography, of which his mind was still very

full, and which he seemed to fancy, represented him in a heroic posture.

I was one of those cosmopolitan Americans, who accept the world (whether

at home or abroad) as they find it, and whose favourite part is that

of the spectator; yet even I was listening with ill-suppressed disgust,

when I was aware of a violent plucking at my sleeve.

"Is he saying he kicked her down stairs?" asked Pinkerton, white as St.

Stephen.

"Yes," said I: "his discarded mistress; and then he pelted her with

stones. I suppose that's what gave him the idea for his picture. He has

just been alleging the pathetic excuse that she was old enough to be his

<<BackPagesTo menuNext>>