I was spending the month of March，1892，at Mentone，in the Riviera.At this retired spot one has all the advantages，privately，which are to be had at Monte Carlo and Nice，a few miles farther along，publicly.That is to say，one has the flooding sunshine，the balmy air，and the brilliant blue sea，without the marring additions of human powwow and fuss and feathers and display.Mentone is quiet，simple，restful，unpretentious；the rich and the gaudy do not come there.As a rule，I mean，the rich do not come there.Now and then a rich man comes，and I presently got acquainted with one of these.Partially to disguise him I will call him Smith.One day，in the Htel des Anglais，at the second breakfast，he exclaimed：
“Quick！Cast your eye on the man going out at the door.Take in every detail of him.”
“Why？”
“Do you know who he is？”
“Yes.He spent several days here before you came.He is an old，retired，and very rich silk manufacturer from Lyons，they say，and I guess he is alone in the world，for he always looks sad and dreamy，and doesn't talk with anybody.His name is Théophile Magnan.”
I supposed that Smith would now proceed to justify the large interest which he had shown in Monsieur Magnan；but instead he dropped into a brown study，and was apparently lost to me and to the rest of the world during some minutes.Now and then he passed his fingers through his flossy white hair，to assist his thinking，and meantime he allowed his breakfast to go on cooling.At last he said：
“No，it's gone；I can't call it back.”
“Can't call what back？”
“It's one of Hans Andersen's beautiful little stories.But it's gone from me.Part of it is like this：A child has a caged bird，which it loves，but thoughtlessly neglects.The bird pours out its song unheard and unheeded；but in time，hunger and thirst assail the creature，and its song grows plaintive and feeble and finally ceases—the bird dies.The child comes，and is smitten to the heart with remorse；then，with bitter tears and lamentations，it calls its mates，and they bury the bird with elaborate pomp and the tenderest grief，without knowing，poor things，that it isn't children only who starve poets to death and then spend enough on their funerals and monuments to have kept them alive and made them easy and comfortable.Now—”
But here we were interrupted.About ten that evening I ran across Smith，and he asked me up to his parlor to help him smoke and drink hot Scotch.It was a cozy place，with its comfortable chairs，its cheerful lamps，and its friendly open fire of seasoned olive-wood.To make everything perfect，there was the muffled booming of the surf outside.After the second Scotch and much lazy and contented chat，Smith said：
“Now we are properly primed—I to tell a curious history，and you to listen to it.It has been a secret for many years—a secret between me and three others；but I am going to break the seal now.Are you comfortable？”
“Perfectly.Go on.”
Here follows what he told me：
A long time ago I was a young artist—a very young artist，in fact—and I wandered about the country parts of France，sketching here and sketching there，and was presently joined by a couple of darling young Frenchmen who were at the same kind of thing that I was doing.We were as happy as we were poor，or as poor as we were happy—phrase it to suit yourself.Claude Frère and Carl Boulanger—these are the names of those boys；dear，dear fellows，and the sunniest spirits that ever laughed at poverty and had a noble good time in all weathers.
At last we ran hard aground in a Breton village，and an artist as poor as ourselves took us in and literally saved us from starving—Franois Millet—
“What！the great Franois Millet？”
Great？He wasn't any greater than we were，then.He hadn't any fame，even in his own village；and he was so poor that he hadn't anything to feed us on but turnips，and even the turnips failed us sometimes.We four became fast friends，doting friends，inseparables.We painted away together with all our might，piling up stock，piling up stock，but very seldom getting rid of any of it.We had lovely times together；but，O my soul！how we were pinched now and then！
For a little over two years this went on.At last，one day，Claude said：
“Boys，we've come to the end.Do you understand that？—absolutely to the end.Everybody has struck—there's a league formed against us.I've been all around the village and it's just as I tell you.They refuse to credit us for another centime until all the odds and ends are paid up.”
This struck us cold.Every face was blank with dismay.We realized that our circumstances were desperate，now.There was a long silence.Finally，Millet said with a sigh：
“Nothing occurs to me—nothing.Suggest something，lads.”
There was no response，unless a mournful silence may be called a response.Carl got up，and walked nervously up and down awhile，then said：
“It's a shame！Look at these canvases：stacks and stacks of as good pictures as anybody in Europe paints—I don't care who he is.Yes，and plenty of lounging strangers have said the same—or nearly that，anyway.”
“But didn't buy，”Millet said.
“No matter，they said it；and it's true，too.Look at your ‘Angelus'there！Will anybody tell me—”
“Pah，Carl—my ‘Angelus！'I was offered five francs for it.”
“When？”
“Who offered it？”
“Where is he？”
“Why didn't you take it？”
“Come—don't all speak at once.I thought he would give more—I was sure of it—he looked it—so I asked him eight.”
“Well—and then？”
“He said he would call again.”
“Thunder and lightning！Why，Franois—”
“Oh，I know—I know！It was a mistake，and I was a fool.Boys，I meant for the best；you'll grant me that，and I—”
“Why，certainly，we know that，bless your dear heart；but don't you be a fool again.”
“I？I wish somebody would come along and offer us a cabbage for it—you'd see！”
“A cabbage！Oh，don't name it—it makes my mouth water.Talk of things less trying.”
“Boys，”said Carl，“do these pictures lack merit？Answer me that.”
“No！”
“Aren't they of very great and high merit？Answer me that.”
“Yes.”
