guide us in divining the workings of the mind, to show besides the outer mask of personality an idea of the mental characteristics. They prefer this, rather than that the beholder should think that the person of the portrait breathes and is ready to step down from the canvas. Lenbach, although clearly not the equal of many of the great names in this category, by reason of the spirit of his workmanship, deserves this high rating.

Four hundred years ago Andrea del Sarto so copied Raphael's "Leo X with Two Cardinals" that he deceived Giulio Romano himself, when the reproduction was shown to him at Mantua. The only painter of modern times who can at all equal this feat is Franz von Lenbach. Under his brush, the carnation tints of Rubens have found new lease of life. His copies have been a source of wonder to students, so completely has he mastered even the slight mannerisms of the great masters. As, in the art of translation, the highest ability as a copyist is granted to but a few. This, as his copies show, Franz von Lenbach certainly possesses, and in so doing stands out before us as the greatest copyist of our day.

We, in our turn, must give the reward of appreciation to this man who, by his persistent application to his own art, and to that of the great masters, has gained such high rank in both branches of his activity. As a student, that is, as a matchless copyist, we must admire him; but still more, as the teacher who has taught us, to look into his character as well as into that of those whom he has painted, by the fearless honest way he expressed what he thought was the truth.

Walter B. Wolf.

66

A

NEAR WASHINGTON SQUARE.

U Coq Français, Restaurant Sachot" was the sign that hung over the door of a neat little house near Washington Square. Sitting on a high stool behind the desk at the right of the door, Mme. Sachot kept an observant pair of eyes under her black silk cap, greeting the regular customers with a jolly smile. "Bon jour, M. Larin," she would say, "n'est ce pas qu'il fait un temps magnifique aujourd'hui," or sadly when it stormed and business was poor, "ah, monsieur, on n'a rien que la neige et la boue en hiver à New York et puis en été ça fait un chaleur véri-tablement d'enfer." All this with many shrugs of her plump shoulders, her little black eyes twinkling merrily all the time in spite of the tragic description of her woes. For Mme. Sachot managed to draw a good many of the busy young men living in the neighborhood to her cheerful dining-room, it was such a bright, clean room, besides the fact that the food was quite extraordinary for the price; but the greatest attraction was Madame herself.

Everyone loved her perhaps because she managed to love all humanity, barring Germans and Jews, but privately, of course, she had her favorites. At the little table in the far corner next the window there always sat one particular young man. Madame had noticed him first because of the gay remarks he would make to the waiter on cold winter mornings when everyone else seemed to have "Good Morning" fairly frozen solid somewhere in their brains. At first he began by some trivial remarks to her, always spoken in French, and good French at that, but the final touch was when he gave her a little tricolor flag at the "Fête de la République." Her heart was won. From that day he never failed to make Madame some little compliment that wreathed the good lady's face in fat wrinkles, "Allez-vous en, mauvais plaisant, vieux farceur que vous êtes," she would cry, nearly falling off the high stool, she shook so

with laughter. And then it was always "Maman Sachot" he called her, there was such a friendship between them. Occasionally he would come in very gay and joyfully tell Madame to look for his article in the next Coliseum. They had given him thirty dollars for it, he shouted gleefully, and she should profit because he was going to invite his friend Le Roy to dine there that very evening. Sure enough, they both arrived at the very moment that M. Cuckoo began to announce seven over Madame's head, to find the table decorated with a bottle of St. Julien and two red carnations, “un cadeau en honneur de la fête de la part de madame la patronne," as Charles, the garçon, importantly announced. She always had a weakness for that M. Le Roy, he had such a good French name, although, to be frank, he could no more speak the language than a pig of a German.

Mme. Sachot began to look upon M. Henri as partly her own, he reminded her of what her little Alphonse might have been, had he lived. In her own mind she began to worry about him if he looked badly and advised him to wear galoshes when the slush was particularly deep. Especially did she take an interest in his work, glorying in his successes and suggested that he might glance at the "Revue des Deux Mondes" occasionally, as the model of magazines, so she had heard. M. Henri's articles, meantime, had become more frequent in the Coliseum, then the Informer began to accept them and even Broadwood's asked for a short story for the coming March number. In spite of the flood of cash this gave him, M. Henri continued to occupy his little table in the corner. One evening an ignorant garçon put a stranger in this sacred place. As soon as Mme. Sachot saw the mistake, great was her wrath; what did he, mean by it she would like to know-put a stranger in M. Henri's place, indeed! When the owner himself came in he seemed unusually happy, wore his black coat with a flower in the buttonhole, true it was Sunday, but the flower was exceptional, thought Madame-and for once he did not seem the least put out about losing his old place.

As the weather grew warmer and the snow disappeared from the grass-plots in the square, M. Henri seemed to grow even younger and more boyish. Maman Sachot at first had not understood it till she heard of his success with the articles. Then she decided that it was prosperity that made him so gay; yet the flowers puzzled her. They were the first sign of some foreign influence working on her M. Henri. Besides, he grew more irregular and would miss a meal quite. often, sometimes staying away for a whole Sunday. She bothered herself for a month or more till one warm evening in May, M. Henri came rushing in and gave her a loud kiss on the cheek. "Coquin," shrieked Madame, but she did not look very angry. He had such news to tell her he was engaged to the sweetest girl in the world, of course. Her name was Marguerite, maman Sachot liked the name, did she not? he asked.

It had come. at last, thought Madame, some little chit had captured him with a pretty face and a head full of nothings. She, Mme. Sachot, had lost her M. Henri for good. Meanwhile she answered his question with a smiling face. "Naturally she liked the name because it was French." Would he not bring Marguerite to a "petite fête de fiançailles" so that his old maman Sachot might know her?

A week later Madame gazed at her table with unappreciative eyes, for was it not the last, the very last time that M. Henri would be there? She had done her best, the table was charming, he should have pleasant memories at least. As the bell over the door announced the guests, she threw aside melancholy and her apron together, and ran forward to greet them.

“Ah, M. Henri, toujours prompt," she cried, then turning to his companion, "Mademoiselle, you do me great honneur." The young lady was satisfactory on the outside, thought madame, but what girl could be really worthy of M. Henri?

"Asseyez-vous, je vous en prie, mesdames et messieurs, le diner vous attend." Corks were popping in quick suc

cession. Charles flew hither and thither like a frightened hen, everything was going off to perfection. From the head of the table Madame beamed on M. Henri, smiled at M. Le Roy's efforts to converse in French, kept half a critical feminine eye on Marguerite and occasionally encouraged the perspiring Charles to greater efforts. The filet had been removed when M. Le Roy rose, calling upon them to drink to the health of "notre chère Mme. Sachot," they all got up and gave her a hearty cheer. Then she jumped up quickly from her seat, glanced towards Marguerite, “A la santé de la fiancée," she cried, with her eyes fixed on M. Henri's happy face. Her hand shook as she raised the glass high in the air and some wine spilt on the cloth, because she knew by his face that he had forgotten her, his maman Sachot, entirely.

"Mais nous devenons tout à fait tragiques, chantons un peu, quelque chose que nous connaissons tous-ah, I haf it."

"Sur le pont d'Avignon, on y danse," she sang in a sweet, worn-out soprano. They all joined in till the little room echoed with the noise. Soon after the guests prepared to go, Marguerite said good-bye and went out with Le Roy. As M. Henri left, "Au revoir maman Sachot," he said, to which she replied, "Adieu, M. Henri."

The far off noise of carriage wheels came to Madame as she sat again at the head of the deserted table. Looking round the room, its rows of ugly tables, the oil cloth on the floor and the whitewashed walls, she saw Charles sleeping quietly in a corner. Her lips moved as if to say, “Réveillez vous donc, paresseux"; instead, she put her tired arms on the table and hid her face in her hands.

Philip L. Goodwin.