This was Desroches’ letter:—
My dear Joseph—Your Monsieur Hochon seems to me an old man of great good sense, and you give me a high idea of his intelligence; he is perfectly right. And, since you ask my opinion, I think your mother should stay at Issoudun with Madame Hochon, paying a small sum, say four hundred francs a year, as compensation for her board. Madame Bridau, I should say, should be entirely guided by Monsieur Hochon’s advice. But your excellent mother will be full of scruples in opposition to people who have none, and whose conduct shows a masterly policy. That Maxence is a dangerous fellow, you are right there; he is a man of far stronger temper than Philippe. This rascal makes his vices serve his fortunes; he does not amuse himself for nothing like your brother, whose frolics were never of any use. All you tell me appalls me, for I could not do much by going to Issoudun. Monsieur Hochon, acting through your mother, will be of more use than I can be.
As for you, you may as well come home; you are of no good at all in a business requiring constant alertness, minute observation, servile attentions, discretion in speech, and dissimulation in looks—all quite antipathetic to an artist. If they tell you there is no will, they have had one made a long time since, you may be sure. But wills are not irrevocable; and as long as your imbecile uncle lives, he will certainly be open to the influence of remorse and religion. Your fortune will be the result of a pitched battle between the Church and la Rabouilleuse. A moment will inevitably come when that woman will lose her power over the old man, and religion will be all-powerful. So long as your uncle has made nothing over to them by deed of gift, nor altered his investments and holdings, at the moment when religion gets the upper hand everything will be possible.
You had better beg Monsieur Hochon to keep an eye as far as possible on your uncle’s possessions. It is important to ascertain whether he holds mortgages, and how and in whose name the deeds are drawn. It is so easy to fill an old man with fears for his life when he is stripping himself of his property in favor of strangers, that a rightful heir with a very little cunning can nip such spoliations in the bud. But is your mother, with her ignorance of the world, her disinterestedness, and her religious ideas, a likely person to manage such an intrigue?
In short, I can only explain the position. What you have done so far must have given the alarm, and perhaps your antagonists are taking steps to protect themselves.
“That is what I call sound advice, kindly given!” cried Monsieur Hochon, proud of finding himself appreciated by a Paris attorney.
“Oh, Desroches is a capital good fellow,” said Joseph.
“It might be useful to show that letter to the two women,” said the old man.
“Here it is,” said Joseph, giving the letter to Hochon. “As for me, I will be off tomorrow, and will go to take leave of my uncle.”
“Ah!” said Monsieur Hochon, “I see that in a postscript Monsieur Desroches desires you to burn the letter.”
“Burn it after showing it to my mother,” said the painter.
Joseph Bridau dressed, crossed the little avenue, and was shown in to his uncle, who was just finishing breakfast. Max and Flore were at table with him.
“Do not disturb yourself, my dear uncle; I have come to take leave of you.”
“You are going?” said Max with a look at Flore.
“Yes, I have some work to do at Monsieur de Sérizy’s château, and I am all the more eager because he has a long enough arm to be of service to my poor brother with the Supreme Court.”
“Well, well; work,” said the old man, with a stupid look, and indeed Rouget seemed to Joseph extraordinarily altered. “You must work. I am sorry you are going—”
“Oh, my mother will remain some time yet,” replied Joseph.
Max gave his lips a twist, which conveyed to the housekeeper, “They are going to act on the plan Baruch spoke of.”
“I am very glad I came,” Joseph went on, “for I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, and you have enriched my studio.”
“Yes, indeed!” said la Rabouilleuse, “instead of enlightening your uncle as to the value of the pictures, which is said to be more than a hundred thousand francs, you packed them off to Paris pretty quick. Poor, dear man, he is like a child. … Why, I have just been told that there is at Bourges a little Poulet—I mean a Poussin—which was in the Cathedral before the Revolution, and that alone is worth thirty thousand franca.”
“That was not right, nephew,” said the old man, at a nod from Max, which Joseph could not see.
“Come now, honestly,” said the soldier, laughing, “on your honor, what do you suppose your pictures are worth? By Jove! you have jockeyed your uncle very prettily. Well, you had a right to do it. Uncles are made to be plundered. Nature bestowed no uncles on me; but, by all that’s holy, if I had any, I would not spare them!”
“Did you know, monsieur,” asked Flore of Rouget, “how much your pictures were worth?—How much did you say, Monsieur Joseph?”
“Well,” said the painter, turning as red
