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HILE I was painting Henri Rochefort, in Paris, I called to see my former master, Gérome. He was old and gray, and tired. He had worked too hard, and yet he was still hard at it, finishing a bronze statue of young Napoleon on horseback, a Tamerlane, his horse bestriding un monceau de têtes de mort, and painting at two or three canvases on the easels. After a little talk about himself and his work, he asked me what I was doing. "A portrait of Rochefort," was my answer. "Rochefort!" he exclaimed, in a strident voice, ''"Ne pourriez vous pas trouver autre chose à faire que cela? Rochefort! Cet homme-là a fait plus de mal à la France que n'importe quel autre de nos jours. C'est un miserable!" Et il poursuivit d'injures l'editeur de l'Intransigeant. Je me tus, je ne savais que répondre. Enfin j'osais balbutier, "Mais, il est si pittoresque, il a une chevelure." Gérome était tellement courroucé que je trouvais bon de m'esquiver.''

Henri Rochefort was the man of the chevelure à la cockatoo, of whom a colossal bust was made by Rodin, in his most brutal manner. He was for many years a well-known figure in London, a political exile. One remarked him in Piccadilly, in the same way as one noticed Sir Squire Bancroft with his head in the air seeming to overlook everybody through his monocle. How very few remarkable figures there are, figures that stand out conspicuously among a mass of mediocrities!