pearls of genius are trodden to pieces for one that is set on high and crowned with honour.
In the twilight of a dull day a little, feeble, brown old man climbed the staircase and entered our attic with shambling step.
We had no strangers to visit us: who visits the poor? We thought he was an enemy: the poor always do think so, being so little used to strangers.
René drew himself erect, and strove to hide the poverty of his garments, standing by his easel. Lili came to me, and played with my leaves in her tender, caressing fashion.
"You painted this, M. René Claude?" asked the little brown old man.
He held in his hand one of the bonbon boxes, the prettiest of them all, with a tambourine-girl dancing in a wreath of Provence roses. René had copied me with loving fidelity in the flowers, and with a sigh had murmured as he cast the box aside when finished, "That ought to fetch at least a franc!" But he had got no more than the usual two sous for it.
The little old man sat down on the chair which Lili placed for him.
"So they told me, where I bought this. It was at a booth at St. Cloud. Do you know that it is charming?"
