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Page 23
'Never heard it that I know of,' answered Chalks; then, raising his
voice, 'Any gentleman present ever heard of--what did you say your
name was?' he asked in an aside; and being informed, went on, 'of Mr.
Davis Blake?'
No one spoke.
'Mud?' queried Chalks.
'Mud?' repeated Mr. Blake, perplexed.
'He means to enquire whether you are a sculptor,' ventured I.
'A sculptor--certainly not.' He spoke sharply, throwing back his head.
'It is impossible that no one here should have heard of me; and this
pretence of ignorance is meant as a practical joke. I am a
novelist--one of the best known novelists living. I am Davis Blake,
the author of "Crispin Dorr," and "The Card Dealer." My portrait, with
a short biographical sketch, appeared in the _Illustrated Gazette_ not
a month ago. My works have been translated into French, German,
Russian, and Italian. Of "The Card Dealer," upwards of thirty thousand
copies have been sold in Great Britain alone.'
'Ah, then you could well afford to stand us drinks,' was Chalks's
cheerful commentary. 'We ain't much on book-learning, this side the
river, Mr. Blake. We're plain blunt men, that ain't ashamed of manual
labour--horny-handed sons of toil, in short. But we're proud to meet a
cultivated gentleman like yourself, all the same, and can appreciate
him when met.'
Blake laughed rather lamely, and responded, 'I perceive that you are a
humorist. Your countrymen are great admirers of my writings; of
"Crispin Dorr," I am told, there are no fewer than three rival
editions in the market; and I have received complimentary letters and
requests for my autograph, from all parts of the United States, I
think that the quality of American humour has been over-rated: but I
can forgive a jest at my own expense, provided it be not meant in
malice.'
'Every novice in our order, sir,' said Chalks, 'must approve his
mettle by undergoing something in the nature of an initiatory ordeal.
We may now drop foolery, and converse like intelligent human beings.
You were asking our opinion of Willy's daub----'
'Willy?' questioned Blake.
'Ay--Bouguereau. Isn't his front name William?' And Chalks, speaking
as it were _ex cathedr�_, made very short work indeed of Monsieur
Bouguereau's claims to rank as a painter. Blake listened with
open-eyed wonder. But we are difficult critics, we of the Paris art
schools, between the ages of twenty and twenty-five; cold, cynical,
suspicious as any Old Bailey judge; and rare is the man whose work can
sustain our notice, and get off with lighter censure than '_cro�te_'
or '_plat d'�pinards_.' We grow more lenient, however, as we advance
in years. Already, at thirty, we begin to detect signs of promise in
other canvases than our own. At forty, conceivably, we shall even
admit a certain degree of actual merit.
By and by, Chalks having concluded his pronouncement, and drifted to
another corner of the room, Blake and I fell into separate talk.
'I must count it a piece of exceptional good fortune,' he informed me,
'to have made the acquaintance of your little _coterie_ this evening.
I am on the point of writing a novel, in which it will be necessary
that my hero should pass several years as a student in the Latin
Quarter; and I have run over from London for the especial purpose of
collecting local colour. No doubt you will be able to help me with a
hint or two as to the best mode of setting about it.'
'I can think of none better than to come here and live for a while,'
said I.
'I only arrived last night, and I put up at the Grand Hotel. But it
was quite my intention to move across the river directly I could find
suitable lodgings. Do you know of any that you could recommend?'
'If you want to see student life _par excellence_, you can scarcely
improve upon the shop I'm in myself--the H�tel du Saint-Esprit, in the
Rue St. Jacques.'
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