Philippe, thus obliged to let his terrible mistress go to London without being able to follow her, returned to his winter quarters, to use his own expression, and came home to his attic in the Rue Mazarine; there he made many gloomy reflections as he went to bed and got up again. He felt it impossible to live otherwise than as he had been living for this year past. The luxury of Mariette’s life, the dinners and suppers, the evenings spent behind the scenes, the high spirits of wits and journalists, the turmoil he had lived in, and all the flattering effect on his senses and on his vanity—this existence, which is to be found only in Paris, and which offers some new sensation every day, had become more than a habit to Philippe; it was a necessity, like tobacco and drams. Indeed, he plainly perceived that he could not live without this constant enjoyment.
The idea of suicide passed through his mind, not on account of the deficit which would be discovered in his balance, but by reason of the impossibility of being with Mariette and living in the atmosphere of pleasures in which he had wallowed for the last twelvemonth. Full of these gloomy notions, he made his appearance, for the first time, in his brother’s studio, and found Joseph at work, in a blue blouse, copying a picture for a dealer.
“So that is the way pictures are made?” said Philippe as an opening.
“No,” said Joseph, “but that is the way they are copied.”
“How much do you get for that?”
“Oh, never enough. Two hundred and fifty francs; but I study the master’s method; I learn by it, I find out the secrets of the trade.—There is one of my pictures,” he went on, pointing with the handle of his brush to a sketch of which the paint was still wet.
“And how much a year do you pocket now?”
“Unfortunately, I am as yet unknown excepting to the painters. Schinner is giving me a helping hand; he is to get me some work at the château de Presles, where I am going in October to paint some arabesques and borders and ornaments for the Comte de Sérizy, who pays very well. With potboilers like this, dealers’ orders, I may make eighteen hundred to two thousand francs before long, all clear profit. But I shall send that picture in to the next exhibition; if it is liked, I am a made man. My friends think well of it.”
“I am no judge,” said Philippe in a quiet tone, which made Joseph look up at him.
“What is the matter?” he asked, seeing his brother look pale.
“I want to know how long it would take you to paint my portrait.”
“Well, if I worked at nothing else, and the light were good, I could do it in three or four days.”
“That is too long. I can only give you a day. My poor mother is so fond of me that I should wish to leave her my likeness. But say no more about it.”
“Why, are you going away again?”
“Going, never to return,” said Philippe, with affected cheerfulness.
“Come, Philippe, my dear fellow, what ails you? If it is anything serious, I am a man, and I am not a simpleton. I am preparing for a hard struggle, and if discretion is needed I can hold my tongue.”
“Can I rely upon it?”
“On my honor.”
“You will never say a word to any living being?”
“Never.”
“Well, then, I am going to blow my brains out.”
“What, are you going to fight a duel?”
“I am going to kill myself.”
“Why?”
“I have taken eleven thousand francs out of the cashbox, and I must give in my accounts tomorrow; my deposit-money will be diminished by half; my poor mother will be reduced to six hundred francs a year. That, after all, is nothing; I might be able later to give her back a fortune. But I am disgraced; I will not live disgraced.”
“You will not be disgraced if you pay; but you will lose your place; you will have nothing left but the five hundred francs pension attached to your Cross. Still, you can live on five hundred francs.”
“Goodbye,” cried Philippe, who hurried downstairs, and would not listen.
Joseph left his work, and went down to join his mother at breakfast; but Philippe’s confession had spoiled his appetite. He took Madame Descoings aside, and told her the dreadful news. The old woman gave a loud cry of dismay, dropped a pipkin full of milk that she had in her hand, and sank on to a chair. Agathe hurried in. With one exclamation and another, the fatal facts were told to the mother.
“He? To fail in honesty! Bridau’s son has taken money that was entrusted to his keeping!”
The widow was trembling in every limb; her eyes seemed to grow larger in a fixed stare; she sat down, and burst into tears.
“Where is he?” she cried between her sobs. “Perhaps he has thrown himself into the Seine!”
“You must not despair,” said Madame Descoings, “because the poor boy has come in the way of a bad woman,
