As I listened to the painter’s tales of woe, I felt welling up within me a most unexpected combination of feelings that I can only describe as envious contempt. What wonders I might do, I thought, in his circumstances, endowed as he was with a young, handsome body, an educated mind, and good standing. As the natural and almost immediate consequence of this sentiment, an idea sprouted that, despite all efforts to banish it, quickly colonized my mind, as if every attempt at suppression merely hastened its triumph. Picture the scene: the two of us alone except for the innkeeper, wiping glasses with a bored look on his face at the far end of the empty room. The thunderstorm now at an end, a brilliant sunshine poured through the inn’s small, solitary window.

He was not a ship’s captain. He wasn’t even a sailor. In fact, he told me, he’d been seasick the entire journey across the Atlantic. But I was suddenly seized with the desire for the very thing he wished to throw away. If he cares not for his life, I thought, I shall care for it in his stead.

At times the best plans come to us fully fledged, as if bestowed from the heavens. So it was on this occasion. I told Feuille all he needed to do to revive his fortunes was to paint a portrait as an advertisement of his powers, which he might subsequently exhibit to attract more customers. It should be a portrait of a remarkable visage, one that would arrest the attention of every passerby with its virtuosity. I offered to commission such a portrait of myself, as I was at the end of my life and wished to have my countenance, such as it was, memorialized. Afterward, he would be welcome to display it in his studio for a time until other commissions were asked of him. At first, he refused my offer—in fact, he evinced a most disagreeable stubbornness. I had to insist upon it several times, and cajole him into accepting, which was only further evidence of his foolishness, for my suggestion was plainly as wise as it was generous. Finally he agreed, although not without a look of doubt upon his face. He suspected me of exploiting him but was not able to divine exactly how. I gave him my winnings from the card game we had just played—some three or four dollars—then twenty dollars more as a guarantee of my sincerity, and so that he might buy any supplies as were necessary for the agreed purpose. We even fixed the date—on the morrow—and the time—two o’clock in the afternoon. I poured two last glasses of rum, emptying the bottle, as a celebration of our agreement.