The Musee Delacroix was poky, dangerously overheated and chock-full of second-rate stuff by M. D himself and others. Even the atelier, which you feel ought to be revealing, was dull. The garden though, in its small way, was very pleasant. I’m a sucker for formal gardens and it was fun to see the degree of formality achieved here, in what’s really no more than a tiny courtyard squeezed in between buildings. I swear I didn’t move the chairs.
And there were some nice postcards of sketches from Delacroix’s Moroccan travels in the little shop.