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The other day, at dessert, after an artists' dinner, they were speaking of François Guerland, whose last picture at the Salon had been so deservedly praised. "Ah! yes," one of them said, with a contemptuous voice and look. "That handsome fellow Guerland!" And another, accentuating the insinuation, added boldly: "Yes, that is exactly it!
She had been seized suddenly; it was an attack of general paralysis, and as her debts were enormous, when her estate had been liquidated, she would have to end her days at La Salpêtrière. "No, certainly not!" François Guerland, the painter, said to himself, when he read the notice of it in the papers. "No, the great Fanny shall certainly not end like that."
"And without that precaution?" Guerland asked him. "Then," the doctor replied; "the final crisis will be all the nearer; that is all. But whether it would be nearer or more remote, it will not be the less fatal." "You are sure of that?" "Absolutely sure." François Guerland took tall Fanny out of the asylum, installed her in splendid apartments, and went to live with her there.
That handsome, too handsome fellow Guerland, the man who allows himself to be kept by women." "Bah! Monsieur," the old mountebank said to me; "it is a matter of exercise and habit, that is all! Of course, one requires to be a little gifted that way, and not to be butter-fingered, but what is chiefly necessary is patience and daily practice for long, long years."
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