After Guy de Maupassant's death a monument was erected to him in Paris, in the Parc Monceau; it consists of a bust of the master of narrative, utterly wanting in character, below which a Parisian lady reads one of his novels, having first disposed her skirts in a fashion which has engrossed the whole of the sculptor's art. At Rouen, at the entrance of the Museum Gardens, facing the medallion of Flaubert, there is another bust in yellow bronze of poor Maupassant, who seems to be protesting against this desecration of his features in the glare of a public garden.
We mention these posthumous works purely as memorials. The soul, the expression, the animated features of Maupassant have found no interpreter. He put all his life, all his true physiognomy into his imperishable tales, so varied, so richly coloured. It is in these we recognise him. He was right to prohibit the publication of his portraits. They did no depict the real aspect of the man, as it was known and loved by his friends —the mobile face animated by the fine eyes which had a certain bitterness, but also such curiosity, such eagerness, such a passion for the spectacle of men and things. It was impassible to paint such vivacity.
"There is something better than having many
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