Agathe soon fell into the monotonously regular way of life, which often is a comfort and support to sorrow-stricken souls. In the morning, after tidying her room, where there were now no cats or little birds, she cooked the breakfast at a corner of her fireplace, and laid it in the studio, where she ate it with her son. She then arranged Joseph’s bedroom, took off her fire, and brought her sewing into the studio, sitting by the little stove, and leaving the room if he had a visitor or a model. Though she knew nothing of art or its processes, she liked the stillness of the place. In this matter she made no advance; she affected nothing; she was always greatly astonished at the importance attached to color, composition, and drawing. When one of the members of Joseph’s little club, or one of his artist friends, was discussing such matters—Schinner, Pierre Grassou, or Léon de Lora, a very young student then known by the name of Mistigris—she would come and look on attentively, and never discover what could give occasion to such big words and hot arguments.
She made her son’s linen, mended his stockings and socks; she even went so far as to clean his palette, collect his painting-rags, and keep the studio in order. And seeing his mother so intelligently careful of these little details, Joseph loaded her with kindness. If the mother and son did not meet halfway on questions of art, they were closely united by affection.
The mother had a scheme. One morning when she had made much of Joseph while he was sketching an enormous picture—which he subsequently painted, but which fell flat—she ventured to say aloud:
“Oh, dear! I wonder what he is doing?”
“Who?”
“Philippe.”
“By Jove! the fellow is having a hard time. It will do him good.”
“But he has had hard times before, and perhaps that was what spoilt him for us. If he were happy, he would be good.”
“My dear mother, you fancy that he was in distress while he was away, but you are mistaken; he lived at his ease in New York, as he still does here—”
“But if he were in want, near us, that would be dreadful—”
“Yes,” said Joseph; “and for my part, I am willing to give him money, but I will not see him. He killed poor Aunt Descoings.”
“Then you would not paint his portrait?”
“For you, mother, I would suffer martyrdom. I would remember only the one fact that he is my brother.”
“His portrait as a Captain of Dragoons, on horseback?”
“Well, I have a fine horse there, copied from Gros, and I do not know what to do with it.”
“Then go to his friend and find out what has become of him.”
“I will.”
Agathe rose; her scissors, everything fell on the floor; she came to kiss Joseph on his forehead and shed two tears on his hair.
“That boy is your passion,” said he. “We all have our ill-starred passion!”
That evening Joseph went to the Rue du Sentier at about our o’clock, and there he found his brother, filling Giroudeau’s place. The elder captain of Dragoons had been transferred as cashier to a weekly paper managed by his nephew. Though Finot was still proprietor of the little daily paper for which he had issued shares, though the shares were all in his own hands, the ostensible owner and editor was a friend of his named Lousteau, the son, as it happened, of the sub-delegate from Issoudun on whom Bridau’s grandfather (Doctor Rouget) had wanted to be revenged, and consequently Madame Hochon’s nephew.
To oblige his uncle, Finot had given him Philippe as deputy, paying him, however, only half the salary. Every day at five o’clock Giroudeau checked the balance and carried off the money taken during the day. Coloquinte, the old soldier who served as messenger, and who ran the errands, also kept an eye on Major Philippe. Philippe, however, was behaving himself. A salary of six hundred francs and a pension of five hundred were enough for him to live on, all the more because a fire was provided for him during the day, and in the evenings he could go to the play on the free list, so he had nothing to pay for but food and lodging. Coloquinte was going out, loaded with stamped papers, and Philippe was brushing his green linen office cuffs, when Joseph walked in.
“Lord! Here is the brat,” said Philippe. “Well, we will dine together; you shall come to the Opera, Florine and Florentine have a box. I am going with Giroudeau; you will be of the party, and I will introduce you to Nathan.”
He took up his loaded cane, and wetted the end of a cigar.
“I cannot avail myself of your invitation; I must look after my mother. We dine at the table d’hôte.”
“Well, and how is she, poor dear thing?”
“She is pretty well,” said the painter. “I have made a new portrait of my father and one of Aunt Descoings. I have finished one of myself, and I should like to give my mother one of you in the uniform of the Imperial Dragoon Guards.”
“All right.”
“But you must come and sit—”
“I am obliged to be here, in this hen-coop, every day from nine till five.”
“Two Sundays will be enough.”
“All right, young ’un,” replied Napoleon’s erewhile staff-officer, as he lighted his cigar at the porter’s lamp.
When Joseph described Philippe’s position to his mother, as they went together to their dinner in the Rue de Beaune, he felt her hand tremble on his arm; joy lighted up the faded face; the poor woman drew breath as though she had been relieved of some enormous burden. Next day she was full of little attentions for Joseph, prompted by
