On a brilliant day in May, in the year 1868, a gentleman was reclining at his ease on thegreat circular divan which at that period occupied the centre of the Salon Carr , in theMuseum of the Louvre. This commodious ottoman has since been removed, to the extremeregret of all weak-kneed lovers of the fine arts, but the gentleman in question had takenserene possession of its softest spot, and, with his head thrown back and his legsoutstretched, was staring at Murillo's beautiful moon-borne Madonna in profoundenjoyment of his posture. He had removed his hat, and flung down beside him a little redguide-book and an opera-glass. The day was warm; he was heated with walking, and herepeatedly passed his handkerchief over his forehead, with a somewhat wearied gesture.And yet he was evidently not a man to whom fatigue was familiar; long, lean, and muscular, he suggested the sort of vigor that is commonly known as "toughness." But his exertions onthis particular day had been of an unwonted sort, and he had performed great physicalfeats which left him less jaded than his tranquil stroll through the Louvre. He had lookedout all the pictures to which an asterisk was affixed in those formidable pages of fine printin his B deker; his attention had been strained and his eyes dazzled, and he had sat downwith an sthetic headache. He had looked, moreover, not only at all the pictures, but at allthe copies that were going forward around them, in the hands of those innumerable youngwomen in irreproachable toilets who devote themselves, in France, to the propagation ofmasterpieces, and if the truth must be told, he had often admired the copy much more thanthe original. His physiognomy would have sufficiently indicated that he was a shrewd andcapable fellow, and in truth he had often sat up all night over a bristling bundle of accounts, and heard the cock crow without a yawn. But Raphael and Titian and Rubens were a newkind of arithmetic, and they inspired our friend, for the first time in his life, with a vagueself-mistrust.
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