No one of all the very commonplace people who formed the two widows’ visiting circle—neither old du Bruel, nor old Claparon, nor Desroches senior, nor even the Abbé Loraux, Agathe’s director, ever noticed Joseph’s powers of observation. Possessed by this taste, the future colorist paid no heed to anything that concerned him; and so long as he was a child, this instinct looked so like stupidity that his father had been somewhat uneasy about him. The extraordinary size of his skull, and the breadth of his forehead, had at first led them to fear that the child had water on the brain. His face, still so rugged, and odd enough to be thought ugly by those who cannot see the intellectual purpose of a countenance, was, during his boyhood, rather pinched. The features, which developed later, seemed crushed together, and the intensity with which the child studied everything puckered them still more. Thus Philippe soothed all his mother’s vanities, while Joseph never won her a compliment. While Joseph was silent and dreamy, Philippe could bring out those clever speeches and repartees which tempt parents to believe that their children will be remarkable men. The mother looked for wonders from Philippe, she founded no hopes on Joseph.
Joseph’s predisposition to art was brought to light by a most commonplace incident. In 1812, during the Easter holidays, as he was returning from a walk in the Tuileries Gardens with his brother and Madame Descoings, he saw a student scrawl a caricature of some professor on a wall, and admiration of this chalk sketch, full of sparkling fun, riveted him to the spot. On the following day the boy placed himself at a window to watch the students going in by the door in the Rue Mazarine; he stole downstairs, and slipped into the long courtyard of the Institute, where he saw a number of statues and busts, marble rough-hewn, terra-cotta figures, studies in plaster; he gazed at them in a fever of excitement, for his instinct was roused, his vocation seethed within him. He went into a large low room, the door standing open, and there saw a dozen or so of lads drawing a statue; he was at once the butt of their tricks.
“Pretty Dick! pretty Dick!” ’ said the first to spy him, flinging some bread crumbs at him.
“Whose brat is that?”
“Heavens, how ugly he is!”
In short, for a quarter of an hour Joseph stood the horseplay of the studio—that of the great sculptor Chaudet; but after making game of him, the pupils were struck by his tenacity and his expression, and asked him what he wanted. Joseph replied that he very much wished to learn to draw; and thereupon everybody was by way of encouraging him. The boy, taken in by this friendly tone, explained that he was Madame Bridau’s son.
“Oh! then, indeed! If you are Madame Bridau’s son,” they sang out from every corner of the studio, “you may become a great man. Hurrah for Madame Bridau’s son. Is your mother pretty? To judge from your pumpkin head as a specimen, she ought to be a sweet one to look at.”
“So you want to be an artist,” said the eldest student, leaving his place, and coming to Joseph to play him some trick. “But you must be plucky, you know, and put up with dreadful things. Yes, there are trials, tests that are enough to break your legs and arms. All these fellows that you see—well, every one of them has passed the tests. Now, that one, for instance, he went for seven days and nights without food. Come, let’s see if you are fit to become an artist?”
He took one of the boy’s arms and placed it straight up in the air, then he set the other at an angle as if about to strike out.
“We call that the ordeal of the telegraph,” said he. “If you stand like that without letting your arms sink, or changing your attitude for a quarter of an hour—well, you will have shown that you have good pluck!”
“Now, little chap, show your mettle,” said the others. “By Jove, you must go through something to become an artist.”
Joseph, in all the good faith of a boy of thirteen, remained motionless for about five minutes, and all the pupils looked at him very gravely.
“Oh! your arm is sinking,” said one.
“Come, steady!” said another.
“By Jove, the Emperor Napoleon stood for at least a month, just as you see him there,” added a third, pointing to Chaudet’s fine statue.
The Emperor was standing holding the Imperial sceptre; and this work was thrown down in 1814 from the column it finished so nobly.
In about ten minutes the perspiration was standing on Joseph’s brow. At this moment a little man came in, bald, pale, and fragile; respectful silence reigned in the studio.
“Now then, you scamps, what are you about?” he asked, looking at the studio victim.
“The little chap is sitting to us,” said the tall student who had placed Joseph in position.
“Are not you ashamed of torturing a poor child so?” said Chaudet, putting down Joseph’s arms. “How long have you been standing there?” he asked, with a friendly pat on the boy’s cheek.
“About a quarter of an hour.”
“And what brings you here?”
“I want to be an artist.”
“And where have you come from; whom do you belong to?”
“From mamma’s.”
“Oh, ho! from mamma’s!” cried the pupils.
“Silence among the easels!” cried Chaudet. “What is your mother?”
“She is Madame Bridau. My papa, who is dead, was a friend of the Emperor’s. And if you will only teach me to draw, the Emperor will pay whatever you ask.”
“His father was head of a department in the Ministry of the Interior,” cried Chaudet, struck by a reminiscence. “And you want already to be an artist?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come here as often as you like; you may play here. Give him an easel,
