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As he crossed the broad spaces of Place St. Sulpice, both his thoughts and his hasty progress were suddenly deflected by a natty figure in mildly aggressive tweeds, supplemented by a cynical monocle and at swinging cane. Menai Tarbell drew a quick breath. He had been in the habit of dodging Fayne-Wyves with a guilty sense of his pecuniary obligations to that literary Mæcenas. Now he hailed the monocle with a self-assurance that caused that coldly critical appendage to drop in surprise.

"Morning, Fayne-Wyves! How 's London to-day? Got some good news for you. Come over to the studio to-night, will you? Au revoir. Am in a frightful rush."

He shot off, leaving the Englishman gaping in leisurely astonishment.

Tarbell chuckled to himself. FayneWyves thought him an impecunious failure, did he? Fayne-Wyves, who never had had to work his nerves into fiddlestrings that sometimes played Macaberesque tunes, striving for the talisman which was to bring him Fortune's smiles. FayneWyves, who had never given his life's blood without return and seen himself grow shabby and woolly-minded and driven to all sorts of decadent makeshifts. Fayne-Wyves, the popular success in literature and "best-sellers," could flaunt his wealth in loans to the beggarly troglodytes of the Latin Quarter. Well, a few days more and Menai Tarbell would prove that two could play at the game of affluence.

The rambling Paris studio which Tarbell shared with Henri Pistache was unoccupied save for a number of chalky portraits in various stages of unfinish, which looked appealingly at Tarbell as if their patience in waiting for a missing eye or mouth or torso was well nigh exhausted.

To their creator, however, in his new frame of mind, they were the princely. assurances of success. The studio was no longer shabby, it was no longer circumscribed, it was no longer bare and inartistic. Space and significance had come to it. It was the sacred temple soon to throng with eager devotees.

Tarbell looked about him with a businesslike deliberation. Where would he and Pistache set up all the easels to accommodate the coming hordes?

For a moment he stood irresolute, then he flung off his coat, locked the door as a precautionary measure, and to the tune of a sprightly "Yankee Doodle" set to work on the great idea.

THAT evening when Fayne-Wyves and Henri Pistache strolled up the shabby stairs to the studio, Tarbell flung open the door with flourish.

"Here you are, Messieurs!" he cried gaily. "Entrez!"

The new-comers glanced curiously about the dimly lighted room. Tarbell's air of consequential importance mystified them.

"You look like 'The Awakened Warrior,'" said Fayne-Wyves. "What 's up?"

Menai Tarbell puffed out his chest like a tumbler pigeon.

"The acme of rot!" said Tarbell, grandiloquently, with an oratorical ges

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Fayne-Wyves was familiar enough with Latin Quarter gaucherie, and could make generous social allowance for Bohemian foolery. But Tarbell was no Bohemian: rather was he a whining pessimist who had lately bemoaned his ill luck and the coldness of the world. He smiled sardonically at his friend.

"Mon pauvre ami," exclaimed Pistache, rubbing his shoulder, "you are a leetle bit toc-toc zis evening." He touched his forehead with serio-comic concern.

But Tarbell disdained to notice the mercurial Frenchman's antics.

"Gentlemen," he roared, "you see before you the protagonist of a new departure in the realm of art."

"Departure!" ejaculated Fayne-Wyves, ironically. "Thought your only departure was to be for the West-to play Strindberg, you know, on his 'little lonely island in the sea.'"

"Such was my foolish intention a short time ago, my friend; but that is the resort of wastrels and failures, as I then pointed

out. Now Fortune has stretched forth monstrosity. "Or else it is the 'Rising her hand. Behold!"

The lights flared up suddenly. Tarbell waved his hand to a spread of canvas covering almost one side of the room, liberally splashed with color and squared off like an irregular checker-board.

"Mon Dieu!" cried Pistache, planting himself in front of it and flinging up his arms, “quel horreur!"

Fayne-Wyves glared at the colored monstrosity with undisguised disgust.

"What's that balderdash, Tarby? Murdered your model and wiped up the wall with her?"

Tarbell grinned.

"Gentlemen, that noble spread of canvas, keep your dirty fingers off it there, Pistache!-which to your untutored minds seems to have no significance, represents nineteen and a half unique and separate scintillations in color from the soul of Menai Tarbell.”

"Oh, I say, Tarby, come to the point!" protested Fayne-Wyves, turning his back on the "scintillations." "You did n't get us up here to look at that nasty stuff?"

"Nasty stuff? To-morrow, FayneWyves, I will 'borrow'-ahem! that is, I'll buy-a pair of garden shears and prove to you that you have had the honor to regard virtually a score of masterpieces -the work of one entire day. These pictures, cut apart, framed, and hung on the walls of this now famous building, are to form the inspiration for hundreds of students of a new and universal short-cut to the painter's art."

"Mon ami, I salute your genius," said Pistache, bowing melodramatically, with his hand on his stomach. "Zis, I suppose, shall be a landscape, or perhaps a cabaret?" He indicated a flaring smear of yellow ocher.

"Neither," said Tarbell, pompously. "It is a life-size, three-quarter portrait of Menai Tarbell."

Fayne-Wyves groaned.

"Jumping devils! Kill him wiz a frog's leg before he goes off what you call 'chump'!" Pistache, on the divan, with waving arms and legs, was warding off an imaginary attack.

Tarbell continued unperturbed in his showman's manner.

"This is a cat having a fit in a plate of milk." He pointed to one corner of the

Moon'; I have n't yet decided which. We'll take a vote later. But details of this trifling nature are not to handicap devotees of the universal art. The method by which this glorious effect is obtained. is delightfully simple and original. You take your shaving-brush, and, ignoring the medium of palette and spatula, dip it into a bottle of―er-well, bluing mixed with photographer's paste, and apply it to the canvas freely half an hour before meals. In this opposite corner you see-you seeyes, I 've about decided to call this pocket gem 'Cow before Sunset.'

"Those spots- aw -are the sunset, eh?" suggested Fayne-Wyves, grimly.

"Why, yes, if you like, old chap. I'd thought of them as the cow. But it does n't matter."

"And that mangy-looking daub over there is 'Grandfather's Last Moments,' no doubt?"

"Capital! Say, Fayne-Wyves, you 're getting along famously. I meant that for a 'Plate of Apples'-still-life, you know; but I can see that your vision is clearer than mine already."

"Jolly well sure of that," said FayneWyves, reaching for his hat. "I know that absinthe katzenjammer you 're suffering from. They say that after three glasses and a crême de menthe you can see daffodils growing out of the carpet. Well, boys, I think I'll be toddling-have a chapter to polish off."

At the door, the "best-seller" turned for a parting fling.

"Let me know when you 've made your pile out of those-er-monumental masterpieces, won't you?" he drawled. The door closed.

Pistache came up from the divan like a Russian egg-toy. He looked at Tarbell lugubriously. Tarbell looked at Pistache cheerfully.

"Imbecile-you! Quel malheur! Zis Fayne-Wyves he shall nevaire believe in our genius any more. He will nevaire lend us a sou again.”

"He won't have to," said Tarbell. "You watch out, Pistache. We'll be lending him."

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"Idiot! Can't you see? Pistache' teaching art to the million-art while you wait? Have n't we got pianolas and pictrolas that turn out music for everybody? Trouble with painting nowadays is that it 's too exclusive-luxury for the few and all that sort of thing. Takes too long to learn. What we want is to make it universal, to give everybody a chance to express himself in paint."

The ingenuous Pistache face brightened. The sprouty Pistache beard began to bristle with excitement.

"And zis horrible 'Grandfathaire's Last Moments,' an' zis 'Cat in a Plate of Milk!' Zey shall have their students?"

"Disciples, mon cher, followers. I've got everything planned. We 'll advertise. We'll start off with half a dozen disgruntled artist 'down-and-outs' who are ready to snatch up any new methods that they think will get them somewhere."


"Once we 've got a start, the next step 's easy. There'll be a whole crowd come along, and-our fortune 's made. Comprends-tu-MADE!"

"Magnifique, mon ami! And how does it call itself, zis art for ze million?"

Menai Tarbell rubbed his head in sudden dismay. He was decidedly nonplussed.

"Dash it all, Pistache! I forgot that." "It is very necessaire, a name. Ze name is ze success, tout-à-fait."

"I guess you 're right there, so far as this moonshine goes."

"Zat is it," shrieked Pistache with a bound. "Listen. Monet he was sunshine. Tarbell et Pistache zey are ze moonshine. It shall be la Lunisme'!"

He caught Tarbell's arms with a cry of exultation and swung him round the


They danced a wild fandango to the Frenchman's improvised guitar.

THE advent of Henri Pistache into the public life of Paris was sensational, to say the least. According to the carefully compiled dossier of the prefect, Henri Pistache was a public nuisance from the moment that, clad in flaming red tights and a pair of sandwich-boards deftly shaped like palettes, he emerged from the seclusion of the home of Lunism to parade the streets with his amazing advertisements. He collected crowds, he excited hoots and cheers, he obstructed traffic. He necessitated certain minor street repairs, owing to the quantity of mud freely appropriated for distribution over his person by the admiring mob that followed ceaselessly in his orbit.

So much for the dossier. According to Monsieur Pistache, on the occasions when he returned to the Lunist Temple for temporary rehabilitation by his jubilant ally, he had set all Paris en carnival. Every handful of mud, he declared with unvarying glee, was sure to be a hundredfranc note in the pockets of Lunism.

Never had Pistache's mercurial temperament and Gallic insouciance stood him in better stead than during the initial days of the launching of Lunism. The very qualities which had handicapped his success at the easel led him readily to accept his new métier of human “sandwich," and insured his success as an advertisement. Even the practical commercialism of Menai Tarbell would have flinched behind the glaring pasteboard palettes which covered the Gallic bosom with announcements in Pistachian French.

"Come and Be a Lunist!" they shrieked in bold red letters. "Lunism, the Art for the Million," they declared in monster black capitals. "Learned at a Gallop for Ten Francs, Cash Down!" "The Greatest Art since Raphael!" they howled in cerulean blue. "Portraiture, Landscape, the Nude, Genre, and Still-Life Complete in Six Lessons." "Daubers Made Over." "Hopeless Failures Cured." "Our Method makes Everybody an Artist!"

Pistache gyrated gracefully from side "Vive Tarbell! Vive Pistache! Vive to side amid the ambient crowd; so that les Lunistes!"

"Vive la Lunisme!" roared Tarbell.

no one who perused this startling communication should miss the rare thrill of

an immediate acquaintance with a choice. exemplar of the new school. This exemplar decorated the palette which hung over the Pistache spine, and represented, if it represented anything at all, a fine frenzy of blacks and purples, straight lines and curves, blue mists and green nightmare. It was evident that the artist himself had been considerably in doubt as to its true classification, for it bore the beguiling challenge: "Name this Picture! Free Lessons to the First Lucky Guesser!"

By the end of three days it was almost more than Pistache's life was worth to be seen on street or boulevard with either the sandwich-boards or the flaming Mephistophelian costume. The little Frenchman, pursued by the double-edged sword of public ridicule, would have been in a fair way to become a martyr in the cause of art had he not developed a highly elusive personality. The engines of offense which lurked at every street corner caused him to adopt a more nimble method of progression than heretofore. When he was not dashing out of his hotel, he was dashing for refuge into a restaurant, and dashing out again in a tempo that suggested flying feathers, and which more than once sent him sprawling to the ground between his pasteboards. Henri Pistache had, in fact, become the most dashing figure in all Paris.

But Menai Tarbell had been a true prophet.

Pupils began to straggle into the old studio. They came from every quarter of the city, at first diffident, critical, doubtful. They found the erstwhile huge canvas distributed over the walls in nineteen cheap gilt frames, and surrounded by a galaxy of still moist gems of the Lunists' art, all bearing that strong family likeness which is the certain sign and symbol of a single master-hand or of a "school." They picked their way among easels. They stumbled over great cans of paint huddled in the corners, in size somewhat suggestive of the house painter's art, in number confidently prophetic of the tremendous boom anticipated for Lunism. Conspicuous among these impedimenta was Monsieur le Professeur, otherwise Menai Tarbell, très bon camarade and very smiling as he sat at the seat of custom, snipped off fresh pieces of canvas, doled out the evil-smelling color medium,

or glibly explained in mongrel French the unique and simple methods which were to transform raw material into genius.

It is on record that the first half-dozen pupils, not having yet grasped the true significance of Lunism, finished their course and departed into the wide world without any particular display of grateful enthusiasm or cheering result. Those who remained were pegging along toward that pinnacle of fame which Monsieur le Professeur, in roseate visions, saw towering just ahead of them when some particularly sensational phase of Pistache's openair antics sent a couple of reporters nosing their way sportively up Tarbell's creaking stairs. Face to face with the perspiring disciples of Lunism and the rainbow aggregation of horrors on the wall, the journalistic Paul Prys whipped out their note-books.

Every one knows the results. When, that evening, the bawling, leather-lunged camelots had distributed the newspapers at a run along the line of boulevard cafés, the world received its first press-notice of the new movement, and roared with mirth, as it had roared at Pistache. The Paul Prys had omitted no scathing word, no scornful epithet, to amuse the boulevardier at the expense of Lunism. Ridicule, the best weapon France has ever had, was used with dazzling effect.

Tarbell and Pistache were in the seventh heaven of delight. Abuse stimulated public interest. Other journalists followed in the footsteps of their colleagues up the creaky stairs. A well-known feuilletonist's mocking interview with Tarbell appeared in print. But a cartoon, à la Gyp, of a Lunist "masterpiece," adapted to contemporaneous political exigencies, set the seal on their notoriety.

Inflamed by the sardonic lucubrations. of the press, students began to multiply, with a corresponding inflow of ten-franc pieces. A substantial bank-note, in full quittance of debt, departed to the palatial domicile of Fayne-Wyves. Tarbell redeemed his watch and cuff-links from the mont-de-piété, while Pistache abandoned the temporary disguise of brilliant tights and sandwich-boards for extreme sartorial fashions in "peg-tops" and the gay duties of an assistant instructor. The studio's long-suffering walls now groaned under the lurid and added weight of the nebu

lous and formless phantasmagorias of a score or more enthusiastic disciples, who hitherto had dreamed as little of putting brush to canvas as of becoming Emperor of China.

It was perhaps two months after the portentous birth of Lunism that the Fayne-Wyves monocle appeared once more in the studio doorway. Tarbell was in the act of inspiring to further reckless color a particularly dauby and promising follower.

"Bon! Just empty a little more temperament over the right-hand corner, and slap on a bit of line-work with a spatula. Et voilà! Hallo, old man!"

Fayne-Wyves was smiling faintly as Monsieur le Professeur concluded his enlightening instructions. The smile was distinctly embarrassed.

"Look here, Tarby," he said, shaking hands, "I've come to apologize for what I once said about this Lunism of yours being such piffle."

Tarbell was somewhat abashed. He had not seen Fayne-Wyves since the revelation of the great idea to the public, and had received only a formal acknowledgment of his bank-note.

"Oh, go along, old chap!" he blustered. "You don't suppose I care?"

Fayne-Wyves was looking about the room. He seemed to be impressed. He was no longer smiling. He was actually solemn. He appeared to be drinking in the finished "scintillations" on the walls, the incoherent "scintillations" on the easels, the great pots of paints, the agile figure of Pistache gliding from one eager tyro to another, the motley throng of "butcher, baker, and candlestick-maker" which bent absorbedly over its work.

"Of course you did n't care," said FayneWyves, earnestly. "You knew you'd a message, Tarby. It takes a big soul to conceive a great thing, and a big perception to recognize it. I had n't the perception then, dash it! but I 've grown."

He clapped the American affectionately on the shoulder. The monocle met the astonished eyes of the "professor" squarely. "Come along to the den across the hall. We're private there," said Tarbell, hastily. "Guess even I did n't think that first night that the 'acme of rot' would cause such a howling furor."

Fayne-Wyves took a final glance about

the walls, and turned away from the studio reluctantly.

"Great Scott!" he said. "What a wonderful spectacle that room is! If I needed anything really to convince me of the greatness of this art movement, Tarby, that crowd of students in there would have done the work."

"Oh, pshaw!" said Tarbell. "Try this new saddleback easy-chair. Bought it yesterday."

Fayne-Wyves sank down into the deep


"Dash your modesty, Tarby! Why did n't you tell me that first night that you were taking a stand against the smug conventionalities of present-day art, and leading a reactionary movement?"

Tarbell laughed awkwardly.

"Look here, Fayne-Wyves, we'll take the compliments for granted. You and I understand Lunism all right.”

The author stretched out his hand.

"Thank you, old man, thank you! You pour coals of fire upon my head. I do understand it. You sha'n't find me lacking again. Have you read Brioche's screed in the 'Patrie' this morning? That's what brought me here."

"No, no," said Tarbell, nervously; "I've done reading those things. Let's have a glass." He took up a bottle from the side-table and held it tentatively over a tumbler.

"Of course one 's got to get over being troubled by the critics. After all, it's only a proof of your greatness. Look at Ibsen. Look at-er-me! Were n't my books once dragged through the slime of obloquy? All the best things in the world have been pelted with mud in the first place by a skeptical public." He took a hasty gulp. "Besides, Brioche is always wrong. I never agree with him. I've been holding off a bit from Lunism, you know, and then-well, I saw his article." Tarbell stared dumfounded. Was Fayne-Wyves serious?

"Say," he burst out, apoplectically, "this thing 's gone too far. I can't let you-"

“Criticism, you mean? Oh, you must n't mind if you have all the old fogies down on you like a thousand bricks. They 'll come round eventually. Don't you worry. You've reached the multitude. You're translating art into terms of

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