Sunday morning they left for Poissy.

Just a few steps from the station, at the end of the church square, they
found Meissonier's property. After passing through a low door, painted
red, which led into a beautiful alley of vines, the journalist stopped
and, turning toward his companion, asked:

"What is your idea of Meissonier?"

Patissot hesitated. At last he decided: "A little man, well groomed,
clean shaven, a soldierly appearance." The other smiled: "All right, come
along." A quaint building in the form of a chalet appeared to the left;
and to the right side, almost opposite, was the main house. It was a
strange-looking building, where there was a mixture of everything, a
mingling of Gothic fortress, manor, villa, hut, residence, cathedral,
mosque, pyramid, a, weird combination of Eastern and Western
architecture. The style was complicated enough to set a classical
architect crazy, and yet there was something whimsical and pretty about
it. It had been invented and built under the direction of the artist.

They went in; a collection of trunks encumbered a little parlor. A little
man appeared, dressed in a jumper. The striking thing about him was his
beard. He bowed to the journalist, and said: "My dear sir, I hope that
you will excuse me; I only returned yesterday, and everything is all
upset here. Please be seated." The other refused, excusing himself: "My
dear master, I only dropped in to pay my respects while passing by."
Patissot, very much embarrassed, was bowing at every word of his
friend's, as though moving automatically, and he murmured, stammering:
"What a su--su--superb property!" The artist, flattered,
smiled, and suggested visiting it.