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ITHOUT doubt Henry Carbouche was the greatest painter in France. He had done his best to convince the world of this, and the world had responded by trying to prove its conviction. A few inches of canvas that he had covered with paint were worth thousands. Sovereigns thought it a privilege to inspect his studio, decorations were offered him, but he cynically refused them, even though he was a Frenchman. Biographical writers pined for details of his life, but he supplied none. No one knew who he was, or where he had studied, or what had been his history. His pictures were famous, but it seemed as if his fame had had no beginning; it had arrived suddenly at its height. One year no one had known his work, the next it was spoken of almost as a national possession; it had been considered one ever since. But he himself was hardly known, even by sight. He had no friends, no particular haunts, nothing that made him intimate with his fellow men, no one visited him except on business, and then the interviews were short, and to the point. It had happened of late years that he had been tempted now and then by some almost fabulous sum to paint a portrait. But his sitters knew him little better than the rest of the world, and could give but few details concerning him; for, while he painted, he was silent and formal, and all attempts to draw him into conversation failed

utterly. The bow with which he wished his sitter adieu for the last time was as distant as the one which he had received him with; for he had never painted a woman. He was no longer young, fifty, more or less; he gave no clue to his age, but he was getting grey, and the lines on his face were many and deep. His expression was grave and stern, his bearing was almost distinguished. He appeared to take some interest in his work, but he was never eager about it. His pictures seemed to be things apart from him, to come into being as though some unseen power other than the man who held the brush inspired them. Besides his work, he took an interest in his investments, but that interest also seemed half curiosity; he shrugged his shoulders as he counted his thousands, and, putting away the record of his wealth in an iron safe, turned to his work again.

Through the winter he stayed in Paris in his house near the Parc Monceau. In the early summer he disappeared, and the only clue to his wandering was afforded, later on, perhaps by some picture he exhibited. His house was a splendid one. Its appointments were perfect; he looked at them with cold criticism, but that was all. The names of his servants he hardly remembered; but he turned on them fiercely if they neglected their duties. His food, the food he ate, was the simplest, yet he stormed if the table