“It is said that you valued them at a hundred and fifty thousand francs to Monsieur Hochon, Is that true?”
“Yes,” said the painter, as candid as a child.
“And had you any intention,” said Flore to the old man, “of giving your nephew a hundred and fifty thousand francs?”
“Never, never,” cried Rouget, on whom Flore had fixed a steady eye.
“It is quite easily settled,” said the painter. “I will send them back to you, uncle.”
“No, no, keep them,” said the old fellow.
“I will send them back, uncle,” repeated Joseph, offended by the insulting silence of Maxence Gilet and Flore Brazier. “I have in my brush the means of making my fortune, without owing anything to anybody—even to my uncle. I wish you good day, mademoiselle. Good morning, monsieur.”
And Joseph recrossed the road in a state of irritation which an artist may conceive of. All the Hochon family were in the sitting-room. Seeing Joseph gesticulating and muttering to himself, they inquired what was the matter. Then, before Baruch and François, the painter, as open as the day, repeated the scene he had just gone through, which, in a couple of hours, was the talk of the whole town, everyone embroidering the story with more or less impudent additions. Some maintained that the painter had been roughly handled by Max, others that he had been insolent to Mademoiselle Brazier, and that Max had turned him out of the house.
“Oh, what a child your boy is!” said Hochon to Madame Bridau. “The simple fellow has been fooled by a scene got up for the day when he should be leaving. Why, Max and la Rabouilleuse have known for this fortnight past what the value of the pictures is, since Joseph was so silly as to mention it in the presence of my grandsons, who were only too eager to repeat it to all the world. Your artist ought to have left without notice.”
“My son is right to restore the pictures if they are so valuable,” said Agathe.
“If they are worth two hundred thousand francs, by his account,” said old Hochon, “he is an idiot for allowing himself to be compelled to return them; for, at any rate, you would have had that much of the property, whereas, as matters stand, you will get nothing!—And this is almost reason enough for your brother to refuse to see you again.”
Between midnight and one in the morning the Knights of Idlesse began their distribution of free rations to the dogs of the town. This memorable expedition ended only at three in the morning, and then the mischievous wretches met for supper at la Cognette’s. At half-past four, in the morning twilight, they crept home. At the instant when Max turned out of the Rue de l’Avenier into the Grand’ Rue, Fario, in ambush in a recess, stabbed him with a knife, aiming straight at the heart, pulled out the weapon, and fled to the moat by la Vilatte, where he wiped the knife on his handkerchief. The Spaniard then rinsed the handkerchief in the Borrowed Stream, and quietly went home to Saint-Paterne, where he went to bed, getting in at a window he had left unfastened; his new shop-boy woke him next morning, finding him sound asleep.
Max as he fell uttered a fearful shriek, too genuine to be misunderstood. Lousteau-Prangin, the son of a magistrate, a distant relation of the late sub-delegate, and young Goddet, who both lived at the bottom of the Grand’ Rue, ran up the street again as fast as they could fly, saying “Max is being killed! Help!”—But not a dog barked, and the inhabitants, inured to the tricks of these night-birds, did not stir.
When the two Knights came up Max had fainted. It was necessary to call up Monsieur Goddet the elder. Max had recognized Fario; but when, at five in the morning, he had fully recovered his wits, seeing himself surrounded by several persons, and feeling that the wound was not mortal, it suddenly struck him that he might take advantage of this attempted murder, and he exclaimed in a feeble voice, “I fancied I saw the eyes and face of that damned painter.”
Upon this, Lousteau-Prangin ran off to fetch his father, the examining judge. Max was carried home by old Cognet, the younger Goddet, and two men whom they got out of bed. La Cognette and Goddet senior walked by the side of Max, who was laid on a mattress placed on two poles. Monsieur Goddet would do nothing till Max was in his bed.
Those who carried him naturally looked across at Hochon’s house while Kouski was getting up, and they saw the woman-servant sweeping. In this house, as in most country places, the door was opened at a very early hour. The only words Max had spoken had aroused suspicion, and the surgeon called across the road:
“Gritte, is Monsieur Joseph Bridau in bed?”
“Dear me,” said she, “he went out at about half-past four; he walked up and down his room all night. I can’t think what had taken him.”
“A pretty fellow, is your painter!” said one and another.
And the party went in, leaving the woman in consternation; she had seen Max lying on the mattress, his shirt stained with blood, apparently dying.
What had “taken” Joseph and disturbed him all night, every artist will understand. He pictured himself as the talk of Issoudun; he was supposed to be a sharper, anything but what he wanted to be—an honest fellow, a hardworking artist. He would have given his own picture to be able to fly like a swallow to Paris and fling his uncle’s pictures in Max’s face. To be the victim and be thought the spoiler! What a mockery! And so at daybreak he had rushed out of the house, and was pacing the avenue of poplars leading to Tivoli to walk off his excitement. While the innocent youth was promising himself, by way of consolation, never to set foot
