he studio, where she sat by the little iron
stove, leaving the room if a comrade or a model entered it. Though she
understood nothing whatever of art, the silence of the studio suited
her. In the matter of art she made not the slightest progress; she
attempted no hypocrisy; she was utterly amazed at the importance they
all attached to color, composition, drawing. When the Cenacle friends
or some brother-painter, like Schinner, Pierre Grassou, Leon de Lora,--a
very youthful "rapin" who was called at that time Mistigris,--discussed
a picture, she would come back afterwards, examine it attentively, and
discover nothing to justify their fine words and their hot disputes. She
made her son's shirts, she mended his stockings, she even cleaned his
palette, supplied him with rags to wipe his brushes, and kept things in
order in the studio. Seeing how much thought his mother gave to these
little details, Joseph heaped attentions upon her in return. If mother
and son had no sympathies in the matter of art, they were at least bound
together by signs of tenderness. The mother had a purpose. One morning
as she was petting Joseph while he was sketching a large picture
(finished in after years and never understood), she said, as it were,
casually and aloud,--

"My God! what is he doing?"

"Doing? who?"

"Philippe."

"Oh, ah! he's sowing his wild oats; that fellow will make something of
himself by and by."

"But he has gone through the lesson of poverty; perhaps it was poverty
which changed him to what he is. If he were prosperous he would be
good--"

"You think, my dear mother, that he suffered during that journey of his.
You are mistaken; he kept carnival in New York just as he does here--"

"But if he is suffering at this moment, near to us, would it not be
horrible?"

"Yes," replied Joseph. "For my part, I will gladly give him some money;
but I don't want to see him; he killed our poor Descoings."

"So," resumed Agathe, "you would not be willing to paint his portrait?"

"For you, dear mother, I'd suffer martyrdom. I can make myself remember
nothing except that he is my brother."

"His portrait as a captain of dragoons on horseback?"

"Yes, I've a copy of a fine horse by Gros and I haven't any use for it."

"Well, then, go and see that friend of his and find out what has become
of him."

"I'll go!"

Agathe rose; her scissors and work fell at her feet; she went and kissed
Joseph's head, and dropped two tears on his