They first discussed topics of the hour, amongst others the Stabat of Rossini. Sénécal, in answer to a question, declared that he never went to the theatre.
Pellerin opened the box of colours.
“Are these all for you?” said the clerk.
“Why, certainly!”
“Well, really! What a notion!” And he leaned across the table, at which the mathematical tutor was turning over the leaves of a volume of Louis Blanc. He had brought it with him, and was reading passages from it in low tones, while Pellerin and Frederick were examining together the palette, the knife, and the bladders; then the talk came round to the dinner at Arnoux’s.
“The picture-dealer, is it?” asked Sénécal. “A nice gentleman, truly!”
“Why, now?” said Pellerin. Sénécal replied:
“A man who makes money by political turpitude!”
And he went on to talk about a well-known lithograph, in which the Royal Family was all represented as being engaged in edifying occupations: Louis Philippe had a copy of the Code in his hand; the Queen had a Catholic prayerbook; the Princesses were embroidering; the Duc de Nemours was girding on a sword; M. de Joinville was showing a map to his young brothers; and at the end of the apartment could be seen a bed with two divisions. This picture, which was entitled “A Good Family,” was a source of delight to commonplace middle-class people, but of grief to patriots.
Pellerin, in a tone of vexation, as if he had been the producer of this work himself, observed by way of answer that every opinion had some value. Sénécal protested: Art should aim exclusively at promoting morality amongst the masses! The only subjects that ought to be reproduced were those which impelled people to virtuous actions; all others were injurious.
“But that depends on the execution,” cried Pellerin. “I might produce masterpieces.”
“So much the worse for you, then; you have no right—”
“What?”
“No, monsieur, you have no right to excite my interest in matters of which I disapprove. What need have we of laborious trifles, from which it is impossible to derive any benefit—those Venuses, for instance, with all your landscapes? I see there no instruction for the people! Show us rather their miseries! arouse enthusiasm in us for their sacrifices! Ah, my God! there is no lack of subjects—the farm, the workshop—”
Pellerin stammered forth his indignation at this, and, imagining that he had found an argument:
“Molière, do you accept him?”
“Certainly!” said Sénécal. “I admire him as the precursor of the French Revolution.”
“Ha! the Revolution! What art! Never was there a more pitiable epoch!”
“None greater, Monsieur!”
Pellerin folded his arms, and looking at him straight in the face:
“You have the appearance of a famous member of the National Guard!”
His opponent, accustomed to discussions, responded:
“I am not, and I detest it just as much as you. But with such principles we corrupt the crowd. This sort of thing, however, is profitable to the Government. It would not be so powerful but for the complicity of a lot of rogues of that sort.”
The painter took up the defence of the picture-dealer, for Sénécal’s opinions exasperated him. He even went so far as to maintain that Arnoux was really a man with a heart of gold, devoted to his friends, deeply attached to his wife.
“Oho! if you offered him a good sum, he would not refuse to let her serve as a model.”
Frederick turned pale.
“So then, he has done you some great injury, Monsieur?”
“Me? no! I saw him once at a café with a friend. That’s all.”
Sénécal had spoken truly. But he had his teeth daily set on edge by the announcements in L’Art Industriel. Arnoux was for him the representative of a world which he considered fatal to democracy. An austere Republican, he suspected that there was something corrupt in every form of elegance, and the more so as he wanted nothing and was inflexible in his integrity.
They found some difficulty in resuming the conversation. The painter soon recalled to mind his appointment, the tutor his pupils; and, when they had gone, after a long silence, Deslauriers asked a number of questions about Arnoux.
“You will introduce me there later, will you not, old fellow?”
“Certainly,” said Frederick. Then they thought about settling themselves. Deslauriers had without much trouble obtained the post of second clerk in a solicitor’s office; he had also entered his name for the terms at the Law School, and bought the indispensable books; and the life of which they had dreamed now began.
It was delightful, owing to their youth, which made everything assume a beautiful aspect. As Deslauriers had said nothing as to any pecuniary arrangement, Frederick did not refer to the subject. He helped to defray all the expenses, kept the cupboard well stocked, and looked after all the household requirements; but if it happened to be desirable to give the doorkeeper a rating, the clerk took that on his own shoulders, still playing the part, which he had assumed in their college days, of protector and senior.
Separated all day long, they met again in the evening. Each took his place at the fireside and set about his work. But ere long it would be interrupted. Then would follow endless outpourings, unaccountable bursts of merriment, and occasional disputes about the lamp flaring too much or a book being mislaid, momentary ebullitions of anger which subsided in hearty laughter.
While in bed they left open the door of the little room where Deslauriers slept, and kept chattering to each other from a distance.
In the morning they walked in their shirtsleeves on the terrace. The sun rose; light vapours passed over the river. From the flower-market close beside them the noise of screaming reached their ears; and the smoke from their pipes whirled round in the clear air, which
