VII

Grassou could not help coloring, for Virginie was sitting.

"Take Nature as you find her," said the great painter, going on with

his lecture. "Mademoiselle is red-haired. Well, is that a sin? All

things are magnificent in painting. Put some vermillion on your

palette, and warm up those cheeks; touch in those little brown spots;

come, butter it well in. Do you pretend to have more sense than

Nature?"

"Look here," said Fougeres, "take my place while I go and write that

note."

Vervelle rolled to the table and whispered in Grassou's ear:--

"Won't that country lout spoilt it?"

"If he would only paint the portrait of your Virginie it would be

worth a thousand times more than mine," replied Fougeres, vehemently.

Hearing that reply the bourgeois beat a quiet retreat to his wife, who

was stupefied by the invasion of this ferocious animal, and very

uneasy at his co-operation in her daughter's portrait.

"Here, follow these indications," said Bridau, returning the palette,

and taking the note. "I won't thank you. I can go back now to

d'Arthez' chateau, where I am doing a dining-room, and Leon de Lora

the tops of the doors--masterpieces! Come and see us."

And off he went without taking leave, having had enough of looking at

Virginie.

"Who is that man?" asked Madame Vervelle.

"A great artist," answered Grassou.

There was silence for a moment.

"Are you quite sure," said Virginie, "that he has done no harm to my

portrait? He frightened me."

"He has only done it good," replied Grassou.

"Well, if he is a great artist, I prefer a great artist like you,"

said Madame Vervelle.

The ways of genius had ruffled up these orderly bourgeois.

The phase of autumn so pleasantly named "Saint Martin's summer" was

just beginning. With the timidity of a neophyte in presence of a man

of genius, Vervelle risked giving Fougeres an invitation to come out

to his country-house on the following Sunday. He knew, he said, how

little attraction a plain bourgeois family could offer to an artist.

"You artists," he continued, "want emotions, great scenes, and witty

talk; but you'll find good wines, and I rely on my collection of

pictures to compensate an artist like you for the bore of dining with

mere merchants."

This form of idolatry, which stroked his innocent self-love, was

charming to our poor Pierre Grassou, so little accustomed to such

compliments. The honest artist, that atrocious mediocrity, that heart

of gold, that loyal soul, that stupid draughtsman, that worthy fellow,

decorated by royalty itself with the Legion of honor, put himself

under arms to go out to Ville d'Avray and enjoy the last fine days of

the year. The painter went modestly by public conveyance, and he could

not but admire the beautiful villa of the bottle-dealer, standing in a

park of five acres at the summit of Ville d'Avray, commanding a noble

view of the landscape. Marry Virginie, and have that beautiful villa

some day for his own!

He was received by the Vervelles with an enthusiasm, a joy, a

kindliness, a frank bourgeois absurdity which confounded him. It was

indeed a day of triumph. The prospective son-in-law was marched about

the grounds on the nankeen-colored paths, all raked as they should be

for the steps of so great a man. The trees themselves looked brushed

and combed, and the lawns had just been mown. The pure country air

wafted to the nostrils a most enticing smell of cooking. All things

about the mansion seemed to say:

"We have a great artist among us."

Little old Vervelle himself rolled like an apple through his park, the

daughter meandered like an eel, the mother followed with dignified

step. These three beings never let go for one moment of Pierre Grassou

for seven hours. After dinner, the length of which equalled its

magnificence, Monsieur and Madame Vervelle reached the moment of their

grand theatrical effect,--the opening of the picture gallery

illuminated by lamps, the reflections of which were managed with the

utmost care. Three neighbours, also retired merchants, an old uncle

(from whom were expectations), an elderly Demoiselle Vervelle, and a

number of other guests invited to be present at this ovation to a

great artist followed Grassou into the picture gallery, all curious to

hear his opinion of the famous collection of pere Vervelle, who was

fond of oppressing them with the fabulous value of his paintings. The

bottle-merchant seemed to have the idea of competing with King Louis-

Philippe and the galleries of Versailles.

The pictures, magnificently framed, each bore labels on which was read

in black letters on a gold ground:

 Rubens

Dance of fauns and nymphs

 Rembrandt

Interior of a dissecting room. The physician van Tromp

instructing his pupils.

In all, there were one hundred and fifty pictures, varnished and

dusted. Some were covered with green baize curtains which were not

undrawn in presence of young ladies.

Pierre Grassou stood with arms pendent, gaping mouth, and no word upon

his lips as he recognized half his own pictures in these works of art.

He was Rubens, he was Rembrandt, Mieris, Metzu, Paul Potter, Gerard

Douw! He was twenty great masters all by himself.

"What is the matter? You've turned pale!"

"Daughter, a glass of water! quick!" cried Madame Vervelle. The

painter took pere Vervelle by the button of his coat and led him to a

corner on pretence of looking at a Murillo. Spanish pictures were then

the rage.

"You bought your pictures from Elie Magus?"

"Yes, all originals."

"Between ourselves, tell me what he made you pay for those I shall

point out to you."