The porcelain-merchant warmly applauded the resolution announced by Eusebe.

“But what will you do?” he inquired of the provincial.

Eusebe confessed that he would have some difficulty in answering that question. Lansade resumed:—

“You had better reflect. Spend a few days in diverting your mind with the sights of Paris. Endeavor to make acquaintances. On my part, I will look about for something that may be agreeable to you.”

A young man, with a smiling countenance, at this moment entered the store, and exclaimed,—

“Good-morning, Monsieur Lansade! Here are your two vases. How do you like them? Are they sufficiently finished?”

“Very good, indeed,” replied Lansade, after carefully examining the paintings on the vases, which were ornamented in the old style. “Very good, Monsieur Buck. When you choose to take pains, you do your work better than anybody else. Here are twenty-five francs. Write me a receipt.”

“A pound sterling. The price is certainly not excessive, Monsieur Lansade; and yet you insist upon a receipt to complete the transaction. Well, give me pen and paper. If ever I become a celebrated painter,—which I certainly shall,—you will have an autograph which will be worth its weight in gold.”

“So much the better for us both, Monsieur Buck.”

Paul Buck was an excellent and worthy young man, who dreamed of glory. The son of a German painter on porcelain, he thoroughly understood that decorative art, and might have earned the means of living handsomely if he had only been industrious. Unhappily, he regarded his profession with contempt. He aspired to be a great painter, and only decorated vases in order to procure the necessaries of life. Lansade, who held Paul in high esteem on account of his frankness and honesty of disposition, introduced him to Eusebe.

Buck was a physiognomist. The countenance of Eusebe pleased him, and he invited the provincial to pay him a visit.

“You wish to study the comedy of human life? I will give you a box gratis.”

Eusebe expressed his gratitude, and, in the simple warmth of his heart, vowed to the painter eternal friendship.

“Friendship!” said the painter. “If you have brought it from the provinces, I will accept it most willingly; but at Paris we have no more friendship. The secret was lost long ago. If we cannot be friends, we will be two bons camarades.”

“Can you tell me the difference,” inquired Eusebe, “between friendship and good-fellowship?”

“Nothing can be clearer,” replied the artist, as he drew from his pocket two pieces of colored glass. “Look at these. This piece was manufactured about three hundred years ago, by a process known to the artists of the Middle Ages. The color is made a part of the glass itself. If you break it, you find the red within as well as without. Now look at the other piece. That was made only a week ago. At the first glance, it appears like the other. But break it, and you find that the red has not penetrated beyond the surface. Do you see?

“Well, this illustrates the difference between friendship and boon-companionship. Friendship permeates the heart of man; good-fellowship only gives it a superficial tint.”

“I comprehend,” said Eusebe.

“To-day, the manner by which color may be rendered permanent and friendship lasting is ranked among the lost arts,” continued the painter. “He who discovers the first will become rich; he who finds the second will be happy.”

“If you will consent,” stammered Eusebe, “we will seek them together.”

“Agreed: it will not kill us,” responded Paul; and they separated.