II

In 1832, Fougeres lived in the rue de Navarin, on the fourth floor of

one of those tall, narrow houses which resemble the obelisk of Luxor,

and possess an alley, a dark little stairway with dangerous turnings,

three windows only on each floor, and, within the building, a

courtyard, or, to speak more correctly, a square pit or well. Above

the three or four rooms occupied by Grassou of Fougeres was his

studio, looking over to Montmartre. This studio was painted in brick-

color, for a background; the floor was tinted brown and well frotted;

each chair was furnished with a bit of carpet bound round the edges;

the sofa, simple enough, was clean as that in the bedroom of some

worthy bourgeoise. All these things denoted the tidy ways of a small

mind and the thrift of a poor man. A bureau was there, in which to put

away the studio implements, a table for breakfast, a sideboard, a

secretary; in short, all the articles necessary to a painter, neatly

arranged and very clean. The stove participated in this Dutch

cleanliness, which was all the more visible because the pure and

little changing light from the north flooded with its cold clear beams

the vast apartment. Fougeres, being merely a genre painter, does not

need the immense machinery and outfit which ruin historical painters;

he has never recognized within himself sufficient faculty to attempt

high-art, and he therefore clings to easel painting.

At the beginning of the month of December of that year, a season at

which the bourgeois of Paris conceive, periodically, the burlesque

idea of perpetuating their forms and figures already too bulky in

themselves, Pierre Grassou, who had risen early, prepared his palette,

and lighted his stove, was eating a roll steeped in milk, and waiting

till the frost on his windows had melted sufficiently to let the full

light in. The weather was fine and dry. At this moment the artist, who

ate his bread with that patient, resigned air that tells so much,

heard and recognized the step of a man who had upon his life the

influence such men have on the lives of nearly all artists,--the step

of Elie Magus, a picture-dealer, a usurer in canvas. The next moment

Elie Magus entered and found the painter in the act of beginning his

work in the tidy studio.

"How are you, old rascal?" said the painter.

Fougeres had the cross of the Legion of honor, and Elie Magus bought

his pictures at two and three hundred francs apiece, so he gave

himself the airs of a fine artist.

"Business is very bad," replied Elie. "You artists have such

pretensions! You talk of two hundred francs when you haven't put six

sous' worth of color on a canvas. However, you are a good fellow, I'll

say that. You are steady; and I've come to put a good bit of business

in your way."

"Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes," said Fougeres. "Do you know Latin?"

"No."

"Well, it means that the Greeks never proposed a good bit of business

to the Trojans without getting their fair share of it. In the olden

time they used to say, 'Take my horse.' Now we say, 'Take my bear.'

Well, what do you want, Ulysses-Lagingeole-Elie Magus?"

These words will give an idea of the mildness and wit with which

Fougeres employed what painters call studio fun.

"Well, I don't deny that you are to paint me two pictures for

nothing."

"Oh! oh!"

"I'll leave you to do it, or not; I don't ask it. But you're an honest

man."

"Come, out with it!"

"Well, I'm prepared to bring you a father, mother, and only daughter."

"All for me?"

"Yes--they want their portraits taken. These bourgeois--they are crazy

about art--have never dared to enter a studio. The girl has a 'dot' of

a hundred thousand francs. You can paint all three,--perhaps they'll

turn out family portraits."

And with that the old Dutch log of wood who passed for a man and who

was called Elie Magus, interrupted himself to laugh an uncanny laugh

which frightened the painter. He fancied he heard Mephistopheles

talking marriage.

"Portraits bring five hundred francs apiece," went on Elie; "so you

can very well afford to paint me three pictures."

"True for you!" cried Fougeres, gleefully.

"And if you marry the girl, you won't forget me."

"Marry! I?" cried Pierre Grassou,--"I, who have a habit of sleeping

alone; and get up at cock-crow, and all my life arranged--"

"One hundred thousand francs," said Magus, "and a quiet girl, full of

golden tones, as you call 'em, like a Titian."

"What class of people are they?"

"Retired merchants; just now in love with art; have a country-house at

Ville d'Avray, and ten or twelve thousand francs a year."

"What business did they do?"

"Bottles."

"Now don't say that word; it makes me think of corks and sets my teeth

on edge."

"Am I to bring them?"

"Three portraits--I could put them in the Salon; I might go in for

portrait-painting. Well, yes!"

Old Elie descended the staircase to go in search of the Vervelle

family. To know to what extend this proposition would act upon the

painter, and what effect would be produced upon him by the Sieur and

Dame Vervelle, adorned by their only daughter, it is necessary to cast

an eye on the anterior life of Pierre Grassou of Fougeres.