reminding me of that childish disposition to hoard, which I noticed in him
of old. And then--inglorious Watteau, as he is!--at times that steadiness,
in which he is so great a contrast to Antony, as it were accumulates,
changes, into a ray of genius, a grace, an inexplicable touch of truth,
in which all his heaviness leaves him for a while, and he actually goes
beyond the master; as himself protests to me, yet modestly. And still, it
is precisely at those moments that he feels most the difference between
himself and Antony Watteau. "In THAT country, ALL the pebbles are golden
nuggets," he says; with perfect good-humour.


June 1716.

'Tis truly in a delightful abode that Antony Watteau is just now
lodged--the hotel or town-house of M. de Crozat, which is not only a
comfortable dwelling-place, but also a precious museum lucky people go
far to see. Jean-Baptiste, too, has seen the place, and describes it.
The antiquities, beautiful curiosities of all sorts--above all, the
original drawings of those old masters Antony so greatly admires-are
arranged all around one there, that the influence, the genius, of those
things may imperceptibly play upon and enter into one, and form what one
does. The house is situated near the Rue Richelieu, but has a large
garden bout it. M. de Crozat gives his musical parties there, and Antony
Watteau has painted the walls of one of the apartments with the Four
Seasons, after the manner of ours, but doubtless improved by second
thoughts. This beautiful place is now Antony's home for a while. The
house has but one story, with attics in the mansard roofs, like those of
a farmhouse in the country. I fancy Antony fled thither for a few
moments, from the visitors who weary him; breathing the freshness of that
dewy garden in the very midst of Paris. As for me, I suffocate this