Ah, what evenings those were! What suppers we used to have in from the _Lepre_! What lots of Orvieto we drank! And what a mountain of empty wicker bottles had to be cleared away from the little square yard with the solitary lemon-tree at the back of the house!" "Come, Mueller--no fond memories!" cried a student in a holland blouse.
"Get on with the story." "Ay, get on with the story!" echoed several voices.
To which Mueller, who took advantage of the interruption to finish his _grog au vin_, deigned no reply.
"Well," he continued, "like a good many other fellows who, having everything to learn and nothing to do, fancy themselves great geniuses only because they are in Rome, I put a grand brass plate on the door, testifying to all passers-by that mine was the STUDIO DI HERR FRANZ MULLER; and, having done this, I believed, of course, that my fortune was to be made out of hand.

Nothing came of it, however.

People in search of Dessoulavy's rooms knocked occasionally to ask their way, and a few English and Americans dropped in from time to time to stare about them, after the free-and-easy fashion of foreigners in Rome; but, for all this, I found no patrons.

Thus several months went by, during which I studied from the life, worked hard at the antique, and relieved the monotony of study with occasional trips to Frascati, or supper parties at the Cafe Greco." "The story! the story!" interrupted a dozen impatient voices.
"All in good time," said Mueller, with provoking indifference.

"We are now coming to it." And assuming an attitude expressive of mystery, he dropped his voice, looked round the table, and proceeded:-- "It was on the last evening of the Carnival.