The Collectors | Page 3

similar funereal shade. A white lawn tie, much soiled, and
congress gaiters, much frayed, were appropriate details of a costume
inevitably topped off with an army slouch hat that had long lacked the
brush. He was immensely long and sallow, wore a drooping moustache
vaguely blonde, between the unkempt curtains of which a thin cheroot
pointed heavenward. As he walked nervously up and down, with a
suspiciously stilted gait, he observed Rosenheim with evident scorn and
the picture with a strange pride. He was not merely odd, but also

offensive, for as Rosenheim whispered 'Comme c'est beau!' there was
an unmistakable snort; when he continued, 'Mais c'est exquis!' the snort
broadened into a mighty chuckle; while as he concluded 'Most
luminous!' the chuckle became articulate, in an 'Oh, shucks!' that could
not be ignored.
"'You seem to be interested, sir,' Rosenheim remarked. 'You bet!' was
the terse response. 'May I inquire the cause of your concern?'
Rosenheim continued placidly. With a most exasperating air of
willingness to please, the stranger rejoined: 'Why, I jest took a simple
pleasure, sir, in seeing an amachoor like you talking French about a
little thing I painted here in Cedar Street.' For a moment Rosenheim
was too indignant to speak, then he burst out with: 'It's an infernal lie;
you could no more paint that picture than you could fly.' 'I did paint it,
jest the same,' pursued the stranger imperturbably, as Rosenheim, to
make an end of the insufferable wag, snapped out sarcastically,
'Perhaps you painted its mate, then, the Bolton Corot.' 'The one that
sold for three thousand dollars last week? Of course I painted it; it's the
best nymph scene I ever done. Don't get mad, mister; I paint most of
the Corots. I'm glad you like 'em.'
"For a moment I feared that little Rosenheim would smite the lank
annoyer dead in his tracks. 'For heaven's sake be careful!' I cried. 'The
man is drunk or crazy or he may even be right; the paint on this picture
isn't two days old.' 'Correct,' declared the stranger. 'I finished it day
before yesterday for this sale.' Then a marked change came over
Rosenheim's manner. He grew positively deferential. It delighted him
to meet an artist of talent; they must know each other better. Cards
were exchanged, and Rosenheim read with amazement the grimy
inscription 'Campbell Corot, Landscape Artist.' 'Yes, that's my painting
name,' Campbell Corot said modestly; 'and my pictures are almost
equally as good as his'n, but not quite. They do for ordinary household
purposes. I really hate to see one get into a big sale like the Bolton; it
don't seem honest, but I can't help it; nobody'd believe me if I told.'
Rosenheim's demeanour was courtly to a fault as he pleaded an
engagement and bade us farewell. Already apparently he divined a
certain importance in so remarkable a gift of mimicry. I stayed behind,

resolved on making the nearer acquaintance of Campbell Corot."
* * * * *
"Rosenheim clearly understands the art of business," interrupted the
Antiquary. "And the business of art," added the Critic. "Could your
seedy friend have painted my Corot?" said the Patron in real distress.
"Why not?" continued the Painter remorselessly. "Only hear me out,
and you may judge for yourself. Anyhow, let's drop your Corot; we
were speaking of mine."
"To make Campbell Corot's acquaintance proved more difficult than I
had expected. He confided to me immediately that he had been a durn
fool to give himself away to my friend, but talk was cheap, and people
never believed him, anyway. Then gloom descended, and my
professions of confidence received only the most surly responses. He
unbent again for a moment with, 'Painter feller, you knowed the pesky
ways of paint, didn't yer?' but when I followed up this promising lead
and claimed him as an associate, he repulsed me with, 'Stuck up, ain't
yer? Parley French like your friend? S'pose you've showed in the
Saloon at Paris.' Giving it up, I replied simply: 'I have; I'm a landscape
painter, too, but I'd like to say before I go that I should be glad to be
able to paint a picture like that.' Looking me in the eye and seeing I
meant it, 'Shake!' he replied cordially. As we shook, his breath met me
fair: it was such a breath as was not uncommon in old-time Cedar
Street. Gentlemen who affect this aroma are, I have noticed, seldom
indifferent to one sort of invitation, so I ventured hardily: 'You know
Nickerson's Glengyle, sir; perhaps you will do me the favour to drink a
glass with me while we chat.' Here I could tell you a lot about
Nickerson's." "Don't," begged the Critic, who is abstemious. "I will
only say, then, that Nickerson's, once