On the evening of that melancholy day, Agathe refused to play cards, and sat in her armchair, a prey to such deep melancholy, that the tears welled up to her beautiful eyes.
“What is the matter, Madame Bridau?” asked old Claparon.
“She believes that her son will have to beg his bread because he has the bump of painting,” said Madame Descoings. “But I have not the smallest misgiving as to my stepson’s boy, little Bixiou, though he too has a passion for drawing. Men are made to fight their way.”
“Madame is right,” said Desroches, a hard, dry man, who in spite of his abilities had never been able to rise in his office. “I happily have but one son; for with my salary of eighteen hundred francs, and my wife, who makes barely twelve hundred by her license to sell stamps, what would have become of me? I have articled my boy to an attorney; he gets twenty-five francs a month and his breakfast, and I give him the same sum; he dines and sleeps at home. That is all he has; he must needs go on, and he will make his way. I have cut out more work for my youngster than if he were at college, and he will be an attorney some day; when I treat him to the play he is as happy as a king, he hugs me! Oh! I keep him tight! He has to account to me for all his money. You are too easy with your children. If your boy wants to try roughing it, let him alone! He will turn out all right.”
“For my part,” said du Bruel, a retired head-clerk who had just taken his pension, “my boy is but sixteen, and his mother worships him. But I would not listen to a vocation that declared itself at such an early age. I think boys want directing.”
“You, monsieur, are rich; you are a man, and have but one child,” said Agathe.
“On my honor,” Claparon went on, “our children are our tyrants (in hearts). Mine drives me mad; he has brought me to ruin, and at last I have given him up altogether (independence). Well, he is all the better pleased, and so am I. The rascal was partly the death of his poor mother. He became a commercial traveler, and it was the very life for him; no sooner was he in the house than he wanted to be out of it; he never could rest, he never would learn. All I pray Heaven is that I may die without seeing him disgrace my name!—Those who have no children miss many pleasures, but they also escape many troubles.”
“Just like a father!” said Agathe, beginning to cry again.
“What I tell you, my dear Madame Bridau, is to prove to you that you must allow your boy to become a painter; otherwise you will lose your time—”
“If you were capable of keeping him in hand,” said the harsh Desroches, “I would tell you to oppose his wishes; but, seeing you so weak with them, I say—let him daub and scribble.”
“Lost!” said Claparon.
“What? Lost!” cried the unhappy mother.
“Oh yes, my Independence in hearts—that dry stick Desroches always makes me lose.”
“Be comforted, Agathe,” said Madame Descoings; “Joseph will be a great man.”
At the end of this discussion, which was like every earthly discussion, the widow’s friends united in one opinion, which by no means put an end to her perplexities. She was advised to allow Joseph to follow his bent.
“And if he is not a man of genius,” said du Bruel, who was civil to Agathe, “you can always get him a place.”
On the landing Madame Descoings, seeing out the three old clerks, called them the “three Sages of Greece.”
“She worries herself too much,” said du Bruel.
“She may think herself only too lucky that her boy will do anything!” said Claparon.
“If only God preserves the Emperor,” said Desroches, “Joseph will be provided for elsewhere. So what has she to be anxious about?”
“She is afraid of everything where her children are concerned,” replied Madame Descoings.
“Well, dear little woman,” she went on, as she reentered the room, “you see they are all of one mind. What have you to cry for now?”
“Oh! if it were Philippe, I should have no fears. You do not know what goes on in those studios. They actually have naked women there!”
“But they have a fire, I hope,” said Madame Descoings.
A few days later news came of the disastrous rout at Moscow. Napoleon was returning to organize fresh armies and call on France for further sacrifices. Now the poor mother was tortured by very different alarms. Philippe, who did not like college, was positively bent on serving the Emperor. A review at the Tuileries, the last Napoleon ever held, of which Philippe was a spectator, had turned his head. At that period of military display the sight of the uniforms, the authority of an epaulette, had an irresistible fascination for some young men. Philippe believed himself to have the same taste for military service that his brother had for the arts.
Unknown to his mother, he wrote to the Emperor a petition in the following words:
Sire—I am the son of your Bridau; I am eighteen years old, and measure nearly six feet; I have stout legs, a good constitution, and I wish to be one of your soldiers. I appeal to your favor to be enrolled in the army, etc.
Within twenty-four hours the Emperor
