Englishman, a painter. Oh, a painter of great talent; a painter who has exposed at the Salon—quoi! A painter who is known in his country. On a même parlé de lui dans les journaux; voilà. But look. He has a vice. He has half ruined, half killed himself with a drug. Yes—opium. Oh, but wait, wait. I will tell you. He came to live in our house last July, in the room opposite mine. When we met, on the landing, in the staircase, he took off his hat, and we passed the bonjour. Oh, he is a gentleman; he has been well brought up. From that we arrived at speaking together a little, and then at visiting. It was the dead season, I had no affairs. I would sit in his room in the afternoon, and we would chat. Oh, he is a fine talker. But, though he had canvases, colours, all that is needed for painting, he never painted. He would only talk, talk. I said, But you ought to paint. He said always, 'Yes, I must begin something to-morrow.' Always to-morrow. And then I discovered what it was. He took opium. He spent all his money for opium. And when he had taken his opium he would not work, he would only talk, talk, talk, and then sleep, sleep. You think that is well—hein? That a painter of talent should do no work, but spend all his money for a drug, for a poison, and then say 'To-morrow'? You think I could sit still and see him commit these follies under my eyes and say nothing, do nothing? Ruin his brain, his health, his career, and waste all his money, for that drug? Oh, mais non. I made him the sermon. I said, 'You know it is very bad, that which you are doing there.' I scolded him. I said, 'But I forbid you to do that—do you understand? I forbid it.' I went with him everywhere, I gave him all my time; and when he would take his drug I would annoy him, I would make a scene, I would shame him. Well, in the end, I have acquired an influence over him. He has sub-mitted
