ornamented with blue designs, which excited the wonder of the farmers.

"How did you happen to buy this place?" asked the journalist.

The novelist explained that, while looking for a cottage to hire for the
summer, he had found the little house, which was for sale for several
thousand francs, a song, almost nothing. He immediately bought it.

"But everything that you have added must have cost you a good deal!"

The writer smiled, and answered: "Yes, quite a little."

The two men left. The journalist, taking Patissot by the arm, was
philosophizing in a low voice:

"Every general has his Waterloo," he said; "every Balzac has his Jardies,
and every artist living in the country feels like a landed proprietor."

They took the train at the station of Villaines, and, on the way home,
Patissot loudly mentioned the names of the famous painter and of the
great novelist as though they were his friends. He even allowed people to
think that he had taken luncheon with one and dinner with the other.

BEFORE THE CELEBRATION

The celebration is approaching and preliminary quivers are already
running through the streets, just as the ripples disturb the water
preparatory to a storm. The shops, draped with flags, display a variety
of gay-colored bunting materials, and the dry-goods people deceive one
about the three colors as grocers do about the weight of candles. Little