Thiers, With Wily Profile; Local Celebrities, Pipe In
Hand; Or, Maybe, A Romantic Landscape Splashed In Oil.
Meanwhile
artist after artist drops into the salle-a-manger for coffee, and
then shoulders easel, sunshade, stool, and
Paint-box, bound into a
fagot, and sets of for what he calls his 'motive.' And artist
after artist, as he goes out of the village, carries with him a
little following of dogs. For the dogs, who belong only nominally
to any special master, hang about the gate of the forest all day
long, and whenever any one goes by who hits their fancy, profit by
his escort, and go forth with him to play an hour or two at
hunting. They would like to be under the trees all day. But they
cannot go alone. They require a pretext. And so they take the
passing artist as an excuse to go into the woods, as they might
take a walking-stick as an excuse to bathe. With quick ears, long
spines, and bandy legs, or perhaps as tall as a greyhound and with
a bulldog's head, this company of mongrels will trot by your side
all day and come home with you at night, still showing white teeth
and wagging stunted tail. Their good humour is not to be
exhausted. You may pelt them with stones if you please, and all
they will do is to give you a wider berth. If once they come out
with you, to you they will remain faithful, and with you return;
although if you meet them next morning in the street, it is as like
as not they will cut you with a countenance of brass.
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